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LORNA DOONE: 


3 , Eotnance of (S-ottoor. 

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By R. D. BLACKMORE, 

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AUTHOR OF “CRADOCK NOWELL,” “THE MAID OF SKER,” “ALICE LORRAINE,” &c. 


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NEW YORK: 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN SQUARE. 




I 8 8 2. 


R. D. BLACKMORE’S NOVELS, 


ALICE LORRAINE. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 

CHRISTOWELL. 4to, Paper, 20 cents. 

CLARA VAUGHAN. 4to, Paper, 15 cents. 

CRADOCK NOWELL. 8vo, Paper, 60 cents. 

CRIPPS, THE CARRIER. A Woodland Tale. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 
50 cents. 

EREMA; or, My Father’s Sin. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 

LORNA DOONE. 8vo, Paper, 60 cents. 

MARY ANERLEY. 4to, Paper, 15 cents; i6mo, Cloth, $1 00. 

THE MAID OF SKER. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

Harper & Brothers will send any of the above works by mail , postage prepaid , to any part of the 
United States, on receipt of the price. 

Gift 

W. L. Shoemaker 


PREFACE. 


This work is called a “romance,” because the incidents, charac- 
ters, time, and scenery, are alike romantic. And in shaping this 
old tale, the Writer neither dares, nor desires, to claim for it the 
dignity or cumber it with the difficulty of an historic novel. 

And yet he thinks that the outlines are filled in more careful- 
ly, and the situations (however simple) more warmly colored and 
quickened, than a reader would expect to find in what is called a 
“ legend.” 

And he knows that any son of Exmoor, chancing on this vol- 
ume, can not fail to bring to mind the nurse-tales of his childhood 
— the savage deeds of the outlaw Doones in the depth of Bag- 
worthy Forest, the beauty of the hapless maid brought up in the 
midst of them, the plain John Ridd’s Herculean power, and (mem- 
ory’s too congenial food) the exploits of Tom Faggus. 






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LORNA DOONE: 


A ROMANCE OF EXMOOR. 

. V 


CHAPTER I. 

ELEMENTS OF EDUCATION. 

I F any body cares to read a simple tale 
told simply, I, John Ridd, of the parish of 
Oare, in the county of Somerset, yeoman and 
church-warden, have seen and had a share 
in some doings of this neighborhood, which 
I will try to set down in order, God sparing 
my life and memory. And they who light 
upon this book should bear in mind not only 
that I write for the clearing of our parish 
from ill-fame and calumny, but also a thing 
which will, I trow, appear too often in it, to 
wit — that I am nothing more than a plain un- 
lettered man, not read in foreign languages, 
as a gentleman might be, nor gifted with long 
words (even in mine own tongue), save what 
I may have won from the Bible or Master 
William Shakspeare, whom, in the face of 
common opinion, I do value highly. In short, 
I am an ignoramus, but pretty well for a 
yeoman. 

My father being of good substance, at least 
as we reckon in Exmoor, and seized in his 
own right, from many generations, of one, 
and that the best and largest, of the three 
farms into which our parish is divided (or 
rather the cultured part thereof), he, John 
Ridd, the elder, church-warden and overseer, 
being a great admirer of learning, and well 
able to write his name, sent me, his only son, 
to be schooled at Tiverton, in the county of 
Devon. For the chief boast of that ancient 
town (next to its woolen staple) is a worthy 
grammar-school, the largest in the west of 
England, founded and handsomely endowed 
in the year 1604 by Master Peter Blundell, 
of that same place, clothier. 

Here, by the time I was twelve years old, 
I had risen into the upper school, and could 
make bold with Eutropius and Caesar — by aid 
of an English version — and as much as six 
lines of Ovid. Some even said that I might, 
before manhood, rise almost to the third 
form, being of a persevering nature ; albeit, 
by full consent of all (except my mother), 
thick-headed. But that would have been, as 


I now perceive, an ambition beyond a farm, 
er’s son ; for there is but one form above it, 
and that made of masterful scholars, entitled 
rightly “ monitors.” So it came to pass, by 
the grace of God, that I was called away from 
learning while sitting at the desk of the jun- 
ior first in the upper school, and beginning 
the Greek verb tvtttu). 

My eldest grandson makes bold to say that 
I never could have learned <pi\scj, ten pages 
farther on, being all he himself could man- 
age, with plenty of stripes to help him. I 
know that he hath more head than I — though 
never will he have such body ; and am thank- 
ful to have stopped betimes, with a meek and 
wholesome head-piece. 

But if you doubt of my having been there, 
because now I know so little, go and see my 
name, “John Ridd,” graven on that very 
form. Forsooth, from the time I was strong 
enough to open a knife and to spell my name, 
I began to grave it in the oak, first of the 
block whereon I sat, and then of the desk in 
front of it, according as I was promoted from 
one to other of them : and there my grand- 
son reads it now, at this present time of 
writing, and hath fought a boy for scoffing 
at it — “John Ridd his name” — and done 
again in “ winkeys,” a mischievous but cheer- 
ful device, in which we took great pleasure. 

This is the manner of a “ winkey,” which 
I here set down, lest child of mine, or grand- 
child, dare to make one on my premises ; if 
he does, I shall know the mark at once, and 
score it well upon him. The scholar obtains, 
by prayer or price, a handful of saltpetre, and 
then with the knife, wherewith he should 
rather be trying to mend his pens, what does 
he do but scoop a hole where the desk is 
some three inches thick. This hole should 
be left with the middle exalted, and the cir- 
cumfer dug more deeply. Then let him fill 
it with saltpetre, all save a little space in the 
midst, where the boss of the wood is. Upon 
that boss (and it will be the better if a splin- 
ter of timber rise upward) he sticks the end 
of his candle of tallow or “ rat’s tail,” as 
we called it, kindled and burning smoothly. 


12 


LORNA DOONE. 


Anon, as he reads by that light his lesson, 
lifting his eyes now and then, it may be, the 
lire of candle lays hold of the petre with a 
spluttering noise and a leaping. Then should 
the pupil seize his pen, and, regardless of the 
nib, stir bravely, and he will see a glow as of 
burning mountains, and a rich smoke, and 
sparks going merrily ; nor will it cease, if he 
stir wisely, and there be good store of petre, 
until the w r ood is devoured through, like the 
sinking of a well-shaft. Now well may it 
go with the head of a boy intent upon his 
primer, who betides to sit thereunder ! But, 
above all things, have good care to exercise 
this art before the master strides up to his 
desk, in the early gray of the morning. 

Other customs, no less worthy, abide in the 
school of Blundell, such as the singeing of 
night-caps ; but though they have a pleasant 
savor, and refreshing to think of, I may not 
stop to note them, unless it be that goodly 
one at the incoming of a flood. The school- 
house stands beside a stream, not very large, 
called “Bowman,” which flows in to the broad 
river of Exe, about a mile below. This Low- 
man stream, although it be not fond of brawl 
and violence (in the manner of our Lynn), yet 
is wont to flood into a mighty head of wa- 
ters when the storms of rain provoke it ; and 
most of all when its little co-mate, called the 
“Taunton brook” — where I have plucked 
the very best cresses that ever man put salt 
on — comes foaming down like a great roan 
horse, and rears at the leap of the hedge- 
rows. Then are the gray stone walls of Blun- 
dell on every side encompassed, the vale is 
spread over with looping w r aters, and it is a 
hard thing for the day-boys to get home to 
their suppers. 

And in that time, the porter, old Cop (so 
called because he hath copper boots to keep 
the wet from his stomach, and a nose of cop- 
per also, in right of other waters), his place it 
is to stand at the gate, attending to the flood- 
boards grooved into one another, and so to 
watch the torrent’s rise, and not be washed 
away, if it please God he may help it. But 
long ere the flood hath attained this height, 
and while it is only waxing, certain boys of 
deputy will watch at the stoop of the drain- 
holes, and be apt to look outside the walls, 
when Cop is taking a cordial. And in the 
very front of the gate, just without the arch- 
way, where the ground is paved most hand- 
somely, you may see in copy-letters done a 
great P. B. of white pebbles. Now it is the 
custom and the law that when the invading 
waters, either fluxing along the wall from 
below* the road - bridge, or pouring sharply 
across the meadows from a cut called “Owen’s 
ditch ” — and I myself have seen it come both 
ways — upon the very instant when the wax- 
ing element lips though it be but a single 
pebble of the founder’s letters, it is in the 
license of any boy, soever small and undoc- 
trined, to rush into the great school-rooms, 


where a score of masters sit heavily, and 
scream at the top of his voice, “ P. B.” 

Then, with a yell, the boys leap up, or 
break away from their standing ; they toss 
their caps to the black -beamed roof, and 
haply the very books after them ; and the 
great boys vex no more the small ones, and 
the small boys stick up to the great ones. 
One with another, hard they go, to see the 
gain of the waters, and the tribulation of 
Cop, and are prone to kick the day-boys out, 
with words of scanty compliment. Then the 
masters look at one another, having no class 
to look to, and (boys being no more left to 
watch) in a manner they put their mouths 
up. With a spirited bang they close their 
books, and make invitation the one to the 
other for pipes and foreign cordials, recom- 
mending the chance of the time, and the 
comfort away from cold water. 

But, lo ! I am dwelling on little things 
and the pigeons’ eggs of the infancy, forget- 
ting the bitter and heavy life gone over me 
since then. If I am neither a hard man nor 
a very close one, God knows I have had no 
lack of rubbing and pounding to make stone 
of me. Yet can I not somehow believe that 
we ought to hate one another, to live far 
asunder, and block the mouth each of his 
little den ; as do the wild beasts of the wood, 
and the hairy outangs now brought over, 
each with a chain upon him. Let that mat- 
ter be as it will. It is beyond me to unfold, 
and mayhap of my grandson’s grandson. All 
I know is that wheat is better than when I 
began to sow it. 


CHAPTER II. 

AN IMPORTANT ITEM. 

Now the cause of my leaving Tiverton 
school, and the way of it, were as follows : 
On the 29th day of November, in the year 
of our Lord 1673, the very day when I was 
twelve years old, and had spent all my sub- 
stance in sweetmeats, with which I made 
treat to the little boys, till the large boys 
ran in and took them, we came out of school 
at five o’clock, as the rule is upon Tuesdays. 
According to custom, we drove the day-boys 
in brave rout dowq the causeway from the 
school-porch even to the gate where Cop has 
his dwelling and duty. Little it recked us 
and helped them less, that they were our 
founder’s citizens, and haply his own grand- 
nephews (for he left no direct descendants), 
neither did we much inquire what their lin- 
eage was ; for it had long been fixed among 
us, who were of the house and chambers, that 
these same day-boys were all “caddes,” as 
we had discovered to call it, because they 
paid no groat for their schooling, and brought 
their own commons with them. In consump- 
tion of these we would help them, for our 


LORNA DOONE. 


13 


fare in hail fed appetite ; and while we ate 
their victuals we allowed them freely to talk 
to us. Nevertheless, we could not feel, when 
all the victuals were gone, hut that these 
hoys required kicking from the premises of 
Blundell. And some of them were shop- 
keepers’ sons, young grocers, fell-mongers, 
and poulterers, and these, to their credit, 
seemed to know how righteous it was to 
kick them. But others were of high fami- 
ly, as any need he, in Devon — Carews, and 
Bouchers, and Bastards, and some of these 
would turn sometimes, and strike the boy 
that kicked them. But to do them justice, 
even these knew that they must he kicked 
for not paying. 

After these “ charity-hoys ” were gone, as 
in contumely we called them — “ If you break 
my hag on my head,” said one, “ whence will 
you dine to-morrow?” — and after old Cop 
with clang of iron had jammed the double 
gates in under the scrutf- stone archway, 
whereupon are Latin verses, done in brass 
of small quality, some of us who were not 
hungry, and cared not for the supper-hell, 
having sucked much parliament and dumps 
at my only charges — not that I ever bore 
much wealth, hut because I had been thrift- 
in g it for this time of my birth — we were 
leaning quite at dusk against the iron bars 
of the gate, some six, or it may be seven of 
us, small boys all, and not conspicuous in 
the closing of the daylight and the fog that 
came at eventide, else Cop would have rated 
us up the green, for he was churly to little 
boys when his wife had taken their money. 
There was plenty of room for all of us, for 
the gate will hold nine boys close -packed, 
unless they be fed rankly, whereof is little 
danger; and now we were looking out on 
the road and wishing we could get there; 
hoping, moreover, to see a good string of 
pack-horses come by, with troopers to pro- 
tect them. For the day-boys had brought 
us word that some intending their way to 
the town had lain that morning at Sampford 
Peveril, and must be in ere night-fall, because 
Mr. Faggus was after them. Now Mr. Fag- 
gus was my first cousin, and an honor to the 
family, being a Northmolton man of great 
renown on the highway from Barum town 
even to London. Therefore, of course, I 
hoped that he would catch the pack-men, 
and the boys were asking my opinion, as of 
an oracle, about it. 

A certain boy leaning up against me would 
not allow my elbow room, and struck me 
very sadly in the stomach part, though his 
own was full of my parliament. And this I 
felt so unkindly, that I smote him straight- 
way in the face without tarrying to consid- 
er it, or weighing the question duly. Upon 
this he put his head down, and presented it 
so vehemently at the middle of my waist- 
coat, that for a minute or more my breath 
seemed dropped, as it were, from my pockets, 


and my life seemed to stop from great want 
of ease. Before I came to myself again, it 
had been settled for us that we should move 
to the “ Ironing-box,” as the triangle of turf 
is called where the two causeways coming 
from the school -porch and the hall -porch 
meet, and our fights are mainly celebrated ; 
only we must wait until the convoy of 
horses had passed, and then make a ring by 
candle-light, and the other boys would like 
it. But suddenly there came round the post 
where the letters of our founder are, not 
from the way of Taunton, but from the side 
of Lowman bridge, a very small string of 
horses, only two indeed (counting for one 
the pony), and a red-faced man on the big- 
ger nag. 

“Plaise ye,. worshipful masters,” he said, 
being feared of the gate-way, “earn ’e tull 
whur our Jan Ridd be ?” 

“ Hyur a be, ees fai, Jan Ridd,” answered 
a sharp little chap, making game of John 
Fry’s language. 

“ Zhow un up, then,” says John Fry, pok- 
ing his whip through the bars at us ; “ zhow 
un up, and putt un aowt.” 

The other little chaps pointed at me, and 
some began to halloo ; but I knew what I 
was about. 

“ Oh, John, John,” I cried; “ what’s the 
use of your coming now, and Peggy over the 
moors, too, and it so cruel cold for her ? The 
holidays don’t begin till Wednesday fort- 
night, John. To think of your not knowing 
that !” 

John Fry leaned forward in the saddle, 
and turned his eyes away from me ; and 
then there was a noise in his throat like a 
snail crawling on a window-pane. 

“Oh, us knaws that wull enough, Maister 
Jan; reckon every Oare-man knaw that, 
without go to skoo-ull, like you doth. Your 
moother have kept arl the apples up, and 
old Betty toorned the black puddens, and 
none dare set trap for a blagbird. Arl for 
thee, lad ; every bit of it now for thee !” 

He checked himself suddenly, and fright- 
ened me. I knew that John Fry’s way so 
well. 

“And father, and father — oh, how is fa- 
ther ?” I pushed the boys right and left as I 
said it. “John, is father up in town? He 
always used to come for me, and leave no- 
body else to do it.” 

“ Vayther’ll be at the crooked post, tother 
aide o’ telling -house.* Her coodn’t lave 
’ouze by raison of the Christmas bakkon 
cornin’ on, and zome o’ the cider welted.” 

He looked at the nag’s ears as he said it ; 
and, being up to John Fry’s ways, I knew 
that it was a lie. And my heart fell like a 
lump of lead, and I leaned back on the stay 
of the gate, and longed no more to fight an> 

* The “telling-houses” on the moor are rude cots 
where the shepherds meet, to “tell” their sheep at 
the end of the pasturing season. 


14 


LORNA DOONE. 


body. A sort of dull power hung over me, 
like the cloud of a brooding tempest, and I 
feared to be told any thing. I did not even 
care to stroke the nose of my pony Peggy, 
although she pushed it in through the rails, 
where a square of broader lattice is, and 
sniffed at me, and began to crop gently af- 
ter my fingers. But whatever lives or dies, 
business must be attended to ; and the prin- 
cipal business of good Christians is, beyond 
all controversy, to fight with one another. 

“Come up, Jack,” said one of the boys, 
lifting me under the chin ; “ he hit you, and 
you hit him, you know.” 

“Pay your debts before you go,” said a 
monitor, striding up to me, after hearing 
how the honor lay; “Ridd, you must go 
through with it.” 

“Fight, for the sake of the junior first,” 
cried the little fellow in my ear, the clever 
one, the head of our class, who had mocked 
John Fry, and knew all about the aorists, 
and tried to make me know it ; but I never 
went more than three places up, and then 
it was an accident, and I came down after 
dinner. The boys were urgent round me to 
fight, though my stomach was not up for it ; 
and being very slow of wit (which is not 
chargeable on me), I looked from one to 
other of them, seeking any cure for it. Not 
that I was afraid of fighting, for now I had 
been three years at Bluudell’s, and fought- 
en, all that time, a fight at least once every 
week, till the boys began to know me ; only 
that the load on my heart was not sprightly 
as of the hay-field. It is a very sad thing 
to dwell on ; but even now, in my time of 
wisdom, I doubt it is a fond thing to imag- 
ine, and a motherly to insist upon, that boys 
can do without fightiug. Unless they be 
very good boys, and afraid of one another. 

“ Nay,” I said, with my back against the 
wrought -iron stay of the gate, which was 
socketed into Cop’s house -front; “I will 
not fight thee now, Robin Snell, but wait 
till I come back again.” 

“Take coward’s blow, Jack Ridd, then,” 
cried half a dozen little boys, shoving Bob 
Snell forward to do it ; because they all 
knew well enough, having striven with me 
ere now, and proved me to be their master — 
they knew, I say, that without great change 
I would never accept that contumely. But 
I took little heed of them, looking in dull 
wonderment at John Fry, and Smiler, and 
the blunderbuss, and Peggy. John Fry was 
scratching bis head, I could see, and getting 
blue in the face, by the light from Cop’s 
parlor- window, and going to and fro upon 
Smiler, as if he were hard set with it. And 
all the time he was looking briskly from 
my eyes to the fist I was clenching, and me- 
thought he tried to wiuk at me in a covert 
manner ; and then Peggy whisked her tail. 

“Shall I fight, John?” I said at last; “I 
would an you had not come, John.” 


“Chraist’s will be done; I zim thee had 
better faight, Jan,” ho answered, in a whis- 
per, through the gridiron of the gate; 
“there be a dale of faighting avore thee. 
Best wai to begin gude taime laike. Wull 
the geatman latt me in, to zee as thee hast 
vair plai, lad ?” 

He looked doubtfully down at the color - 
of his cowskin boots, and the mire upon the 
horses, for the sloughs were exceeding mucky. 
Peggy, indeed, my sorrel pony, being lighter 
of weight, was not crusted much over the 
shoulders; but Smiler (our youngest sled- 
der) had been well in over his withers, and 
none would have deemed him a piebald, save 
of red mire and black mire. The great blun- 
derbuss, moreover, w r as choked with a dollop 
of slough-cake; and John Fry’s sad-color- 
ed Sunday hat was indued wfith a plume of 
marish-weed. All this I saw while he was 
dismounting, heavily and wearily, lifting his 
leg from the saddle-cloth as if with a sore 
crick in his back. 

By this time the question of fighting -was 
gone quite out of our own discretion; for 
sundry of the elder boys, grave and rever- 
end signors, who had taken no small pleas- 
ure in teaching our hands to fight, to ward, 
to parry, to feign and counter, to lunge in 
the manner of sword-play, and the weaker 
child to drop on one knee when no cunning 
of fence might baffle the onset — these great 
masters of the art, who would far liefer see 
us little ones practice it than themselves 
engage, six or seven of them came running 
down the rounded causeway, having heard 
that there had arisen “a snug little mill” 
at the gate. Now whether that word hath 
origin in a Greek term meaning a conflict, 
as the best-read boys asseverated, or whether 
it is nothing more than a figure of similitude, 
from the beating arms of a mill, such as I 
have seen in counties where are no water- 
brooks. but folk make bread with wind — it 
is not for a man devoid of scholarship to de- 
termine. Enough that they who made the 
ring intituled the scene a “ mill,” while we 
who must be thumped inside it tried to re- 
joice in their pleasantry, till it turned upon 
the stomach. 

Moreover, I felt upon me now a certain 
responsibility, a dutiful need to maintain, in 
the presence of John Fry, the manliness of 
the Ridd family, and the honor of Exmoor. 
Hitherto none had worsted me, although in 
the three years of my schooling I had fought 
more than threescore battles, and bedewed 
with blood every plant of grass toward the 
middle of the Ironing-box. And this suc- 
cess I owed at first to no skill of my own, 
until I came to know better ; for up to 
twenty or thirty fights, I struck as nature 
guided me, no wiser than a father-long-legs 
in the heat of a lantern ; but I had con- 
quered, partly through my native strength 
and the Exmoor toughness in me, and still 


LORNA DOONE. 


15 


more that I could not see when I had gotten 
my bellyful. But now I was like to have 
that and more ; for my heart was down, to 
begin with; and then Robert Snell was a 
bigger boy than I had ever encountered, 
and as thick in the skull and hard in the 
brain as even I could claim to be. 

I had never told my mother a word about 
these frequent strivings, because she was 
soft-hearted ; neither had I told my father, 
because he had not seen it. Therefore, be- 
holding me still an innocent-looking child, 
with fair curls on my forehead, and no store 
of bad language, John Fry thought this was 
the very first fight that ever had befallen 
me ; and so when they let him in at the 
gate , 11 with a message to the head-master,” 
as one of the monitors told Cop, and Peggy 
and Smiler were tied to the railings till I 
should be through my business, John comes 
. up to me with the tears in his eyes, and says, 
“Doon’t thee goo for to do it, Jan; doon’t 
thee do it, for gude now.” But I told him 
that now it was much too late to cry off ; so 
he said, “ The Lord be with thee, Jan, and 
turn thy thumb-knuckle inward.” 

It is not a very large piece of ground in 
the angle of the causeways, but quite big 
enough to fight upon, especially for Chris- 
tians, who love to be cheek by jowl at it. 
The great boys stood in a circle around, be- 
ing gifted with strong privilege, and the lit- 
tle boys had leave to lie flat and look through 
the legs of the great boys. But while we 
were yet preparing, and the candles hissed 
in the fog -cloud, old Phoebe, of more than 
fourscore years, whose room was over the 
hall -porch, came hobbling out, as she al- 
ways did, to mar the joy of the conflict. 
No one ever heeded her, neither did she ex- 
pect it ; but the evil was that two senior 
boys must always lose the first round of the 
fight by having to lead her home again. 

I marvel how Robin Snell felt. Very like- 
ly he thought nothing of it, always having 
been a boy of a hectorin g and unruly sort. But 
I felt my heart go up and down as the boys 
came round to strip me ; and greatly fearing 
to be beaten, I blew hot upon my knuckles. 
Then pulled I off my little cut jerkin and 
laid it down on my head cap, and over that 
my waistcoat, and a boy was proud to take 
care of them, Thomas Hooper was his name, 
and I remember how he looked at me. My 
mother had made that little cut jerkin in 
the quiet winter evenings, and taken pride 
to loop it up in a fashionable way, and I was 
loath to soil it with blood, and good filberds 
were in the pocket. Then up to me came 
Robin Snell (mayor of Exeter thrice since 
that), and he stood very square, and looked 
at me, and I lacked not long to look at him. 
Round his waist he had a kerchief busking 
up his small-clothes, and on his feet light 
pumpkin shoes, and all his upper raiment 
off. And he danced about in a way that 


made my head swim on my shoulders, and 
he stood some inches over me. But I, be- 
ing muddled with much doubt about John 
Fry and his errand, was only stripped of my 
jerkin and waistcoat, and not comfortable 
to begin. 

11 Come now, shake hands,” cried a big 
boy, jumping in joy of the spectacle, a third- 
former nearly six feet high ; “ shake hands, 
you little devils. Keep your pluck up, and 
show good sport, and Lord love the better 
man of you.” 

Robin took me by the hand, and gazed at 
me disdainfully , and then smote me painful- 
ly in the face, ere I could get my fence up. 

“Wliutt be ’bout, lad?” cried John Fry; 
“ hutt un again, Jan, wull ’e ? Well done 
then, our Jan boy.” 

For I had replied to Robin now, with all 
the weight and cadence of penthemimeral 
cjesura (a thing, the name of which I know, 
but could never make head nor tail of it), 
and the strife began in a serious style, and 
the boys looking on were not cheated. Al- 
though I could not collect their shouts when 
the blows were ringing upon me, it was no 
great loss ; for John Fry told me afterward 
that their oaths went up like a furnace fire. 
But to these we paid no heed or hap, be- 
ing in the thick of swinging, and devoid of 
judgment. All I know is, I came to my 
corner, when the round was over, with very 
hard pumps in my chest, and a great desire 
to fall away. 

“ Time is up,” cried head-monitor ere ever 
I got my breath again ; and when I fain 
would have lingered a while on the knee 
of the boy that held me. John Fry had 
come up, and the boys were laughing be- 
cause he wanted a stable lantern, and threat- 
ened to tell my mother. 

“ Time is up,” cried another boy, more 
headlong than head-monitor. “ If we count 
three before the come of thee, thwacked thou 
art, and must go to the women.” I felt it 
hard upon me. He began to count, one, two, 
three — but before the “ three ” was out of 
his mouth, I was facing my foe, with both 
hands up, and my breath going rough and 
hot, and resolved to wait the turn of it. 
For I had found seat on the knee of a boy 
sage and skilled to tutor me, who knew how 
much the end very often differs from the be- 
ginning. A rare ripe scholar he was; and 
now he hath routed up the Germans in the 
matter of criticism. Sure the clever boys 
and men have most love toward the stupid 
ones. 

“ Finish him off, Bob,” cried a big boy, and 
that I noticed especially, because I thought 
it unkind of him, after eating of my toffee as 
he had that afternoon ; “ finish him off, neck 
and crop ; he deserves it for sticking up to a 
man like you.” 

But I was not so to be finished off, though 
feeling in my knuckles now as if it were a 


16 


LORNA DOONE. 


blueness and a sense of chilblain. Nothing 
held except my legs, and they were good to 
help me. So this bout, or round, if you 
please, was foughten warily by me, with 
gentle recollection of what my tutor, the 
clever boy, had told me, and some resolve to 
earn his praise before I came back to his 
knee again. And never, I think, in all my 
life, sounded sweeter words in my ears (ex- 
cept when my love loved me) than when my 
second and backer, who had made himself 
part of my doings now, and would have 
wept to see me beaten, said, 

“Famously done, Jack, famously ! Only 
keep your wind up, Jack, and you’ll go right 
through him !” 

Meanwhile John Fry was prowling about, 
asking the boys what they thought of it, 
and whether I was like to be killed, because 
of my mother’s trouble. But finding now 
that I had foughten threescore fights al- 
ready, he came up to me woefully, in the 
quickness of my breathing, while I sat on 
the knee of my second, with a piece of spon- 
gious coralline to ease me of my bloodshed, 
and he says in my ears, as if he were clap- 
ping spurs into a horse, 

“ Never thee knack under, Jan, or never 
coom naigh Hexmoor no more.” 

With that it was all up with me. A sim- 
mering buzzed in my heavy brain, and a 
light came through my eye-places. At once 
I set both fists again, and my heart stuck to 
me like cobbler’s wax. Either Robin Snell 
should kill me, or I would conquer Robin 
Snell. So I went in again with my courage 
up, and Bob came smiling for victory, and I 
hated him for smiling. He let at me with 
his left hand, and I gave him my right be- 
tween his eyes, and he blinked, and was not 
pleased with it. I feared him not, and spared 
him not, neither spared myself. My breath 
came again, and my heart stood cool, and my 
eyes struck fire no longer. Only I knew that 
I would die sooner than shame my birth- 
place. How the rest of it was I know not ; 
only that I had the end of it, and helped to 
put Robin in bed. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE WAR-PATH OP THE DOONES. 

From Tiverton town to the town of Oare 
is a very long and painful road, and in good 
truth the traveler must make his way, as 
the saying is ; for the way is still unmade, 
at least, on this side of Dulverton, although 
there is less danger now than in the time 
of my schooling ; for now a good horse may 
go there without much cost of leaping, but 
when I was a boy the spurs would fail, when 
needed most, by reason of the slough-cake. 
It is to the credit of this age, and our advance 
upon fatherly ways, that now we have laid 


down rods and fagots, and even stump-oaks 
here and there, so that a man in good day- 
light need not sink if he be quite sober. 
There is nothing I have striven at more than 
doing my duty, way-warden over Exmoor. 

But in those days, when I came from 
school (and good times they were, too, full 
of a warmth and fine hearth-comfort, which 
now are dying out), it was a sad and sorry 
business to find where lay the highway. 
We are taking now to mark it oft' with a 
fence on either side, at least, when a town is 
handy ; but to me this seems of a high pre- 
tense, and a sort of landmark, and channel 
for robbers, though well enough near Lon- 
don, where they have earned a race-course. 

We left the town of the two fords, which 
they say is the meaning of it, very early in 
the morning, after lying one day to rest, as 
was demanded by the nags, sore of foot and 
foundered. For my part, too, I was glad to 
rest, having aches all over me, and very 
heavy bruises; and we lodged at the sign 
of the White Horse Inn, in the street called 
Gold Street, opposite where the souls are of 
John and Joan Greenway, set up in gold let- 
ters, because we must take the homeward 
way at cock-crow of the morning. Though 
still John Fry was dry with me of the rea- 
son of his coming, and only told lies about 
father, and could not keep them agreeable, 
I hoped for the best, as all boys will, espe- 
cially after a victory. And I thought, per- 
haps father had sent for me because he had 
a good harvest, and the rats were bad in the 
corn-chamber. 

It was high noon before we were got to 
Dulverton that day, near to which town the 
river Exe and its big brother Barle have 
union. My mother had an uncle living there, 
but we were not to visit his house this time, 
at which I wa$ somewhat astonished, since 
we needs must stop for at least two hours, 
to bait our horses thorough well, before com- 
ing to the black bogway. The bogs are very 
good in frost, except where the hot-springs 
rise ; but as yet there had been no frost this 
year, save just enough to make the black- 
birds look big in the morning. In a hearty 
black-frost they look small, until the snow 
falls over them. 

The road from Bampton to Dulverton had 
not been very delicate, yet nothing to com- 
plain of much — no deeper, indeed, than the 
hocks of a horse, except in the rotten places. 
The day was inclined to be mild and foggy, 
and both nags sweated freely; but Peggy 
carrying little weight (for my wardrobe was 
upon Smiler, and John Fry grumbling al- 
ways), we could easily keep in front, as far 
as you may hear a laugh. 

John had been rather bitter with me, 
which methought was a mark of ill taste 
at coming home for the holidays ; and yet I 
made allowance for John, because he had 
never been at school, and never would have 


LORNA DOONE. 


17 


chance to eat fry upon condition of spell- 
ing it ; therefore I rode on, thinking that he 
was hard-set, like a saw, for his dinner, and 
would soften after tooth-work. And yet at 
his most hungry times, when his mind was 
far gone upon bacon, certes he seemed to 
check himself and look at me as if he were 
sorry for little things coming over great. 

But now, at Dulverton, we dined upon the 
rarest and choicest victuals that ever I did 
taste. Even now, at my time of life, to 
think of it gives me appetite, as once and 
awhile to think of my first love makes me 
love all goodness. Hot mutton pasty was 
a thing I had often heard of from very 
wealthy boys and men, who made a dessert 
of dinner ; and to hear them talk of it made 
my lips smack, and my ribs come inward. 

And now John Fry strode into the hostel, 
with the air and grace of a short-legged man, 
and shouted as loud as if he was calling 
sheep upon Exmoor, 

“ Hot mootton pasty for twoo trarv’lers, 
at number vaive, in vaive minnits! Dish 
un up in the tin with the grahvy, zame as I 
hardered last Tuesday.” 

Of course it did not come in five minutes, 
nor yet in ten or twenty ; but that made it 
all the better when it came to the real pres- 
ence ; and the smell of it was enough to 
make an empty man thank God for the room 
there was inside him. Fifty years have 
passed me quicker than the taste of that 
gravy. 

It is the manner of all good boys to be 
careless of apparel, and take no pride in 
adornment. Good lack, if I see a boy make 
todo about the fit of his crumpler, and the 
creasing of his breeches, and desire to be 
shod for comeliness rather than for use, I 
can not ’scape the mark that God took 
thought to make a girl of him. Not so when 
they grow older, and court the regard of the 
maidens: then may the bravery pass from 
the inside to the outside of them ; and no 
bigger fools are they, even then, than their 
fathers were before them. But God forbid 
any man to be a fool to love, and be loved, 
as I have been. Else would he have pre- 
vented it. 

When the mutton pasty was done, and 
Peggy and Srniler had dined well also, out I 
went to wash at the pump, being a lover of 
soap and water, at all risk, except of my din- 
ner. And John Fry, who cared very little 
to wash, save Sabbath-days in his own soap, 
and who had kept me from the pump by 
threatening loss of the dish, out he came in 
a satisfied manner, with a piece of quill in 
his hand, to lean against a door-post, and 
listen to the horses feeding, and have his 
teeth ready for supper. 

Then a lady’s maid came out, and the sun 
was on her face, and she turned round to go 
back again ; but put a better face upon it, 
and gave a trip and hitched her dress, and 
2 


looked at the sun full body, lest the hostlers 
should laugh that she was losing her com- 
plexion. With a long Italian glass in her 
fingers very daintily, she came up to the 
pump in the middle of the yard, where I 
was running the water off all my head and 
shoulders, and arms, and some of my breast 
even, and though I had glimpsed her through, 
the sprinkle, it gave me quite a turn to see 
her, child as I was, in my open aspect. But 
she looked at me, no whit abashed, making 
a baby of me, no doubt, as a woman of thir- 
ty will do, even with a very big boy when 
they catch him on a hay-rick, and she said 
to me, in a brazen manner, as if I had been 
nobody, while I was shrinking behind the 
pump, and craving to get my shirt on, 
“ Good leetle boy, come hither to pie. Fine 
heaven ! how blue your eyes are, and your 
skin like snow ; but some naughty man has 
beaten it black. Oh, leetle boy, let me feel 
it. Ah, how then it must have hurt you ! 
There now, and you shall love me.” 

All this time she was touching my breast, 
here and there, very lightly, with her deli- 
cate brown fingers, and I understood from 
her voice and manner that she was not of 
this country, but a foreigner by extraction. 
And then I was not so shy of her, because I 
could talk better English than she ; and yet 
I longed for my jerkin, but liked not to be 
rude to her. 

“ If you please, madam, I must go. John 
Fry is waiting by the tapster’s door, and 
Peggy neighing to me. If you please, we 
must get home to-night ; and father will be 
waiting for me this side of the telling- 
house.” 

“ There, there, you shall go, leetle dear, 
and perhaps I will go after you. I have 
taken much love of you. But the Baroness 
is hard to me. How far you call it now to 
the bank of the sea at Wash — Wash — ” 

“At Watchett, likely you mean, madam. 
Oh, a very long way, and the roads as soft 
as the road to Oare.” 

“ Oh- ah, oh-ah — I shall remember ; that is 
the place where my leetle boy live, and some 
day I will come seek for him. Now make 
the pump to flow, my dear, and give me the 
good water. The Baroness will not touch 
unless a nebule be formed outside the glass.” 

I did not know what she meant by that ; 
yet I pumped for her very heartily, and mar- 
veled to see her for fifty times throw the 
water away in the trough, as if it was not 
good enough. At last the water suited her, 
with a likeness of fog outside the glass, and 
the gleam of a crystal under it, and then she 
made a courtesy to me, in a sort of mocking 
manner, holding the long glass by the foot, 
not to take the cloud off ; and then she want- 
ed to kiss me ; but I was out of breath, and 
have always been shy of that work, except 
when I come to offer it; and so I ducked 
under the pump-handle, and she knocked 


18 


LOENA DOONE. 


her chin on the knob of it ; and the hostlers 
came out, and asked whether they would do 
as well. 

Upon this, she retreated up the yard, with 
a certain dark dignity, and a foreign way of 
walking, which stopped them at once from 
going farther, because it was so different 
from the fashion of their sweethearts. One 
with another they hung back, where half a 
cart-load of hay was, and they looked to be 
sure that she would not turn round; and 
then each one laughed at the rest of them. 

Now, up to the end of Dulverton town, on 
the northward side of it, where the two new 
pig-sties be, the Oare folk and the Watchett 
folk must trudge on together, until we come 
to a broken cross, where a murdered man 
lies buried. Peggy and Smiler went up the 
hill, as if nothing could be too much for 
them, after the beans they had eaten, and 
suddenly turning a corner of trees, we hap- 
pened upon a great coach and six horses 
laboring very heavily. John Fry rode on 
with his hat in his hand, as became him, to- 
ward the quality ; but I was amazed to that 
degree, that I left my cap on my head, and 
drew bridle without knowing it. 

For in the front seat of the coach, which 
was half-way open, being of new city-make, 
and the day in want of air, sat the foreign 
lady, who had met me at the pump and of- 
fered to salute me. By her side was a little 
girl, dark-haired and very wonderful, with 
a wealthy softness on her, as if she must 
have her own way. I could not look at her 
for two glances, and she did not look at me 
for one, being such a little child, and busy 
with the hedges. But in the honorable 
place sat a handsome lady, very warmly 
dressed, and sweetly delicate of color. And 
close to her was a lively child, two, or it 
may be three years old, bearing a white 
cockade in his hat, and staring at all and 
every body. Now he saw Peggy, and took 
such a liking to her, that the lady his moth- 
er — if so she were — was forced to look at 
my pony and me. And, .to tell the truth, 
although I am not of those who adore the 
high folk, she looked at us very kindly, and 
with a sweetness rarely found in the wom- 
en who milk the cows for us. 

Then I took otf my cap to the beautiful 
lady, without asking wherefore ; and she put 
up her hand and kissed it to me, thinking, 
perhaps, that I looked like a gentle and good 
little boy ; for folk always called me inno- 
cent, though God knows I never was that. 
But now the foreign lady, or lady’s maid, as 
it might be, who had been busy with little 
dark-eyes, turned upon all this going on, and 
looked me straight in the face. I was about 
to salute her, at a distance, indeed, and not 
with the nicety she had offered to me, but, 
strange to say, she stared at my eyes as if 
she had never seen me before, neither wish- 
ed to see me again. At this I was so star- 


tled, such things being out of my knowledge; 
that I startled Peggy also with the muscle 
of my legs, and she being fresh from stable, 
and the mire scraped off with cask-hoop, 
broke away so suddenly that I could do no 
more than turn round and lower my cap, 
now five months old, to the beautiful lady. 
Soon I overtook John Fry, and asked him 
all about them, and how it was that we had 
missed their starting from the hostel. But 
John would never talk much till after a gal- 
lon of cider ; and all that I could win out 
of him was that they were “ murdering Pa- 
pishers,” and little he cared to do with them, 
or the devil as they came from. And a good 
thing for me, and a providence, that I was 
gone down Dulverton town to buy sweet- 
stuff for Annie, else my stupid head would 
have gone astray with their great outcom- 
ing. 

We saw no more of them after that, but 
turned into the sideway, and soon had the 
fill of our hands and eyes to look to our own 
going. For the road got worse and worse, 
until there was none at all, and perhaps the 
purest thing it could do was to be ashamed 
to show itself. But we pushed on as best 
we might, with doubt of reaching home any 
time, except by special grace of God. 

The fog came down upon the moors as 
thick as ever I saw it ; and there was no 
sound of any sort, nor a breath of wind to 
guide us. The little stubby trees that stand 
here and there, like bushes with a wooden 
leg to them, were drizzled with a mess of 
wet, and hung their points with dropping. 
Wherever the butt-end of a hedge-row came 
up from the hollow ground, like the withers 
of a horse, holes of splash were pocked and 
pimpled in the yellow sand of coneys, or 
under the dwarf-tree’s ovens. But soon it 
was too dark to see that, or any thing else, 
I may say, except the creases in the dusk, 
where prisoned light crept up the valleys. 

After a while even that was gone, and 
no other comfort left us except to see our 
horses’ heads jogging to their footsteps, and 
the dark ground pass below us, lighter where 
the wet was ; and then the splash, foot after 
foot, more clever than we cau do it, and the 
orderly jerk of the tail, and the smell of 
what a horse is. 

John Fry was bowing forward with sleep 
upon his saddle, and now I could no longer 
see the frizzle of wet upon his beard — for he 
had a very brave one, of a bright red color, 
and trimmed into a whale-oil knot, because 
he was newly married — although that comb 
of hair had been a subject of some wonder 
to me, whether I, in God’s good time, should 
have the like of that, handsomely set with 
shiuing beads, small above and large below, 
from the weeping of the heaven. But still 
I could see the jog of his hat — a Sunday hat 
with a top to it — and some of his shoulder 
bowed out iu the mist, so that one could say. 


LORNA DOONE. 


19 


“Hold up, John / 7 when Smiler put his foot 
in. 

“ Mercy of God ! Where he 11s now ?” said 
John Fry, waking suddenly; “us ought to 
have passed hold hash, Jan. Zeen it on the 
road, have ’ee ?” 

“ No indeed, John ; no old ash. Nor noth- 
ing else to my knowing; nor heard nothing, 
save thee snoring.” 

“Watt a vule thee must he then, Jan; 
and me myzell no better. Harken, lad, 
harken !” 

We drew our horses up and listened, 
through the thickness of the air, and with 
our hands laid to our ears. At first there 
was nothing to hear, except the panting of 
the horses and the trickle of the eaving; 
drops from our head -covers and clothing, 
and the soft sounds of the lonely night, that 
make us feel, and try not to think. Then 
there came a mellow noise, very low and 
mournsome, not a sound to he afraid of, but 
to long to know the meaning, with a soft 
rise of the hair. Three times it came and 
went again, as the shaking of a thread might 
pass away into the distance ; and then I 
touched John Fry to know that there was 
something near me. 

~ “ Doon’t ’e be a vule, Jan ! Vaine moozick 
as iver I ’eer. God bless the man as made 
un doo it !” 

“ Have they hanged one of the Doones 
then, John ?” 

“ Hush, lad ; niver talk laike o’ thiccy. 
Hang a Doone ! God knoweth, the King 
would hang pretty quick if her did.” 

“ Then who is it in the chains, John ?” 

I felt my spirit rise as I asked; for now 
I had crossed Exmoor so often as to hope 
that the people sometimes deserved it, and 
think that it might be a lesson to the rogues 
who unjustly loved the mutton they were 
never born to. But, of course, they were 
born to hanging, when they set themselves 
so high. 

“It be nawbody,” said John, “vor us to 
make a fush about. Belong to t’other zide 
o’ the moor, and come staling shape to our 
zide. Red Jem Hannaford his name. Thank 
God for him to be hanged, lad ; and good 
cess to his soul for craikin’ zo.” 

So the sound of the quiet swinging led us 
very modestly, as it came and went on the 
wind, loud and low pretty regularly, even 
as far as the foot of the gibbet where the 
four cross- ways are. 

“ Vamous job this here,” cried John, look- 
ing up to be sure of'it, because there were 
so many ; “ here be my own nick on the post. 
Red Jem, too, and no doubt of him ; he do 
hang so handsome like, and his ribs up laike 
a horse a’most. God bless them as discov- 
ered the way to make a rogue so useful. 
Good-naight to thee, Jem, my lad ; and not 
break thy drames with the craikin’.” 

John Fry shook his bridle-arm, and smote 


upon Smiler merrily, as he jogged into the 
homeward track from the guiding of the 
body. But I was sorry for Red Jem, and 
wanted to know more about him, and wheth- 
er he might not have avoided this miserable 
end, and what his wife and children thought 
of it, if, indeed, he had any. But John 
would talk no more about it ; and perhaps 
he was moved with a lonesome feeling, as 
the creaking sound came after us. 

“ Hould thee tongue, lad,” he .said sharp- 
ly ; “ us be naigh the Doone-track now, two 
maile from Dunkery Beacon hill, the haigh- 
est place of Hexmoor. So happen they be 
abroad to-naight, us must crawl on our belly- 
places, boy.” 

I knew at once what he meant — those 
bloody Doones of Bagworthy, th'e awe of all 
Devon and Somerset, outlaws, traitors, mur- 
derers. My little legs began to tremble to 
and fro upon Peggy’s sides, as I heard the 
dead robber in chains behind us, and thought 
of the live ones still in front. 

“But, John,” I whispered, warily, sidling 
close to his saddle-bow; “dear John, you 
don’t think they will see us in such a fog 
as this ?” 

“ Never God made vog as could stop their 
eyesen,” he whispered in answer, fearfully ; 
“ here us be by the hollow ground. Zober, 
lad, goo zober now, if thee wish to see thy 
moother.” 

For I was inclined, in the manner of boys, 
to make a run of the danger, and cross the 
Doone-track at full speed ; to rush for it, 
and be done with it. But even then I won- 
dered why he talked of my mother so, and 
said not a word of father. 

We were come to a long deep “ goyal,” as 
they call it on Exmoor, a word whose fount- 
ain and origin I have nothing to do with. 
Only I know that w r hen little boys laugh- 
ed at me at Tiverton for talking about a 
“ goyal,” a big boy clouted them on the 
head, and said that it was in Homer, and 
meant the hollow of the hand. And anoth- 
er time a Welshman told me that it must be 
something like the thing they call a “pant” 
in those parts. Still I know what it means 
well enough — to wit, a long trough among 
wild hills, falling toward the plain country, 
rounded at the bottom, perhaps, and stitf, 
more than steep, at the sides of it. Whether 
it be straight or crooked, makes no differ- 
ence to it. 

We rode very carefully down our side, and 
through the soft grass at the bottom, and 
all the while we listened as if the air was a 
speaking-trumpet. Then gladly we breast- 
ed our nags to the rise, and were coming to 
the comb of it, when I heard something, and 
caught John’s arm, and he bent his hand to 
the shape of his ear. It was the sound of 
horses’ feet knocking up through splashy 
ground, as if the bottom sucked them. Then 
a grunting of weary men, and the lifting 


20 


LORNA DOONE. 


noise of stirrups, and sometimes the clank 
of iron mixed with the wheezy croning of 
leather, and the blowing of hairy nostrils. 

“ God’s sake, Jack, slip round her belly, 
and let her go where she wull.” 

As John Fry whispered, so I did, for he 
was off Smiler by this time; but our two 
pads were too fagged to go far, and began 
to nose about and crop, sniffing more than 
they need have done. I crept to John’s side 
very softly, with the bridle on my arm. 

“Let goo braidle; let goo, lad. Plaise 
God they take them for forest -ponies, or 
they’ll zend a bullet through us.” 

I saw what he meant, and let go the bridle : 
for now the mist was rolling off, and we were 
against the sky-line to the dark cavalcade 
below us. John lay on the ground by a 
barrow of heather, where a little gullet was, 
and I crept to him, afraid of the noise I 
made in dragging my legs along, and the 
creak of my cord breeches. John bleated 
like a sheep to cover it — a sheep very cold 
and trembling. 

Then, just as the foremost horseman pass- 
ed, scarce twenty yards below us, a puff of 
wind came up the *glen, and the fog rolled 
off before it. And suddenly a strong red 
light, cast by the cloud -weight downward, 
spread like fingers over the moor-land, open- 
ed the alleys of darkness, and hung on the 
steel of the riders. 

“Dunkery Beacon,” whispered John, so 
close into my ear that I felt his lips and 
teeth ashake ; “ dursn’t fire it now excep to 
show the Doones way home again, since the 
naight as they went up and throwed the 
watchmen atop of it. Why, wutt be ’bout, 
lad ? God’s sake — ” 

For I could keep still no longer, but wrig- 
gled away from his arm, and along the lit- 
tle gullet, still going flat on my breast and 
thighs, until I was under a gray patch of 
stone, with a fringe of dry fern round it; 
there I lay, scarce twenty feet above the 
heads of the riders, and I feared to draw my 
breath, though prone to do it with wonder. 

For now the beacon was rushing up, in a 
fiery storm to heaven, and the form of its 
flame came and went in the folds, and the 
heavy sky was hovering. All around it was 
hung with red, deep in twisted columns, and 
then a giant beard of fire streamed through- 
out the darkness. The sullen hills were 
flanked with light, and the valleys chined 
with shadow, and all the sombrous moors 
between awoke in furrowed anger. 

But most of all the fliuging fire leaped 
into the rocky mouth of the glen below me, 
where the horsemen passed in silence, scarce- 
ly deigning to look round. Heavy men and 
large of stature, reckless how they bore their 
guns, or how they sat their horses, with 
leathern jerkins, and long boots, and iron 
plates on breast and head, plunder heaped 
behind their saddles, and flagons slung in 


front of them ; more than thirty went along, 
like clouds upon red sunset. Some had car- 
casses of sheep swinging with their skius on, 
others had deer, and one had a child flung 
across his saddle-bow. Whether the child 
were dead or alive, was beyond my vision, 
only it hung head downward there, and must 
take the chance of it. They had got the 
child, a very young one, for the sake of the 
dress, no doubt, which they could not stop 
to pull off from it; for the dress shone 
bright, where the fire struck it, as if with 
gold and jewels. I longed in my heart to 
know most sadly what they would do with 
the little thing, and whether they would 
eat it. 

It touched me so to see that child, a prey 
among those vultures, that in my foolish 
rage and burning I stood up and shouted to 
them, leaping on a rock, and raving out of 
all possession. Two of them turned round, 
and one set his carbine at me, but the other 
said it was but a pixie, and bade him keep 
his powder. Little they knew, and less 
thought I, that the pixie then before them 
would dance their castle down one day. 

John Fry, who in the spring of fright had 
brought himself down from Smiler’s side as 
if he were dipped in oil, now came up to me, 
all risk being over, cross, and stiff, and ach- 
ing sorely from his wet couch of heather. 

“ Small thanks to thee, Jan, as my new 
waife bain’t a widder. And who be you to 
zupport of her, and her son, if she have one ? 
Zarve thee right if I was to chuck thee down 
into the Doone-track. Zim thee’ll come to 
un, zooner or later, if this be the zample of 
thee.” 

And that was all he had to say, instead of 
thanking God! For if ever born man was 
in a fright, and rehdy to thank God for any 
thing, the name of that man was “John 
Fry,” not more than five minutes agone. 

However, I answered nothing at all, ex- 
cept to be ashamed of myself; and soon we 
found Peggy and Smiler in company, well 
embarked on the homeward road, and vict- 
ualing where the grass was good. Right 
glad they were to see us again — not for the 
pleasure of carrying, but because a horse 
(like a woman) lacks, and is better without, 
self-reliance. 

My father never came to meet us at ei- 
ther side of the telling-house, neither at the 
crooked post, nor even at liome-linhay, al- 
though the dogs kept such a noise that he 
must have heard us. Home-side of the lin- 
hay, and under the ashen hedge-row, where 
father taught me to catch blackbirds, all at 
once my heart went down, and all my breast 
was hollow. There was not even the lan- 
tern light on the peg against the cow’s 
house, and nobody said “ Hold your noise !” 
to the dogs, or shouted “ Here our Jack is !” 

I looked at the posts of the gate in the 
dark, because they were tall, like father, and 


LORNA DOONE. 


21 


then at the door of the harness-room, where 
he used to smoke his pipe and sing. . Then 
I thought he had guests, perhaps — people 
lost upon the moors — whom he could not 
leave unkindly, even for his son’s sake. 
And yet about that I was jealous, and ready 
to be vexed with him, when he should be- 
gin to make much of me. And I felt in my 
pocket for the new pipe which I had brought 
him from Tiverton, and said to myself, “ He 
shall not have it until to-morrow morning.” 

Woe is me ! I can not tell. How I knew 
I know not now — only that I slunk away, 
without a tear, or thought of weeping, and 
hid me in a saw -pit. There the timber, 
overhead, came like streaks across me ; and 
all I wanted was to lack, and none to tell 
me any thing. 

By-and-by a noise came down, as of wom- 
an’s weeping ; and there my mother and sis- 
ter were, choking and holding together. Al- 
though they were my dearest loves, I could 
not bear to look at them, until they seemed 
to want my help, and put their hands before 
their eyes. 


CHAPTER IV. 

A VEKY RASH VISIT. 

My dear father had been killed by the 
Doones of Bagworthy, while riding home 
from Porlock market, on the Saturday even- 
ing. With him were six brother -farmers, 
all of them very sober; for father would 
have no company with any man who went 
beyond half a gallon of beer, or a single gal- 
lon of cider. The robbers had no grudge 
against him ; for he had never flouted them, 
neither made overmuch of outcry because 
they robbed other people. For he was a 
man of such strict honesty, and due parish 
feeling, that he knew it to be every man’s 
own business to defend himself and his 
goods, unless he belonged to our parish, and 
then we must look after him. 

These seven good farmers were jogging 
along, helping one another in the troubles 
of the road, and singing goodly hymns and 
songs to keep their courage moving, when 
suddenly a horseman stopped in the star- 
light full across them. 

By dress and arms they knew him well, 
and by his size and stature, shown against 
the glimmer of the evening star ; and though 
he seemed one man to seven, it was in truth 
one man to one. Of the six who had been 
singing songs and psalms about the power 
of God, and their own regeneration — such 
psalms as went the round, in those days, of 
the public-houses — there was not one but 
pulled out his money, and sang small-beer 
to a Doone. 

But father had been used to think that 
any man who was comfortable inside his 


own coat and waistcoat deserved to have 
no other set, unless he would strike a blow 
for them. And so, while his gossips doffed 
their hats, and shook with what was left of 
them, he set his staff above his head, and 
rode at the Doone robber. With a trick of 
his horse, the wild man escaped the sudden 
onset, although it must have amazed him 
sadly that any durst resist him. Then, 
when Smiler was carried away with the 
dash and the weight of my father (not be- 
ing brought up to battle, nor used to turn, 
save in plow harness), the outlaw whistled 
upon his thumb, and plundered the rest of 
the yoemen. But father, drawing at Smiler’s 
head, to try to come back and help them, 
was in the midst of a dozen men, who seem- 
ed to come out of a turf-rick, some on horse 
and some afoot. Nevertheless, he smote 
lustily, so far as he could see ; and being of 
great size and strength, and his blood well 
up, they had no easy job with him. With 
the play of his wrist he cracked three ofr 
four crowns, being always famous at sin- 
gle-stick; until the rest drew their horses 
away, and he thought that he was master, 
and would tell his wife about it. 

But a man beyond the range of staff was 
crouching by the peat -stack, with a long 
gun set to his shoulder, and he got poor fa- 
ther against the sky, and I can not tell the 
rest of it. Only they knew that Smiler 
came home with blood upon his withers, 
and father was found in the morning dead 
on the moor, with his ivy-twisted cudgel ly- 
ing broken under him. Now, whether this 
were an honest fight, God judge betwixt the 
Doones and me. 

It was more of woe than wonder, being 
such days of violence, that mother knew 
herself a widow, and her children father- 
less. Of children there were only three, 
none of us fit to be useful yet, only to com- 
fort mother, by making her to work for us. 
I, John Ridd, was the eldest, and felt it a 
heavy thing on me ; next came sister Aunie, 
with about two years between us ; and then 
the little Eliza. 

Now, before I got home and found my sad 
loss — and no boy ever loved his father bet- 
ter than I loved mine — mother had done a 
most wondrous thing, which made all the 
neighbors say that she must be mad, at 
least. Upon the Monday morning, while 
her husband lay unburied, she cast a white 
hood over her hair, and gathered a black 
cloak round her, and, taking counsel of no 
one, set off on foot for the Doone-gate. 

In the early afternoon she came to the 
hollow and barren entrance, where in truth 
there was no gate, only darkness to go 
through. If I get on with this story, I 
shall have to tell of it by-and-by, as I saw 
it afterward, and will not dwell there now. 
Enough that no gun was fired at her, only 
her eyes were covered over, and somebody 


22 


LORNA DOONE. 


led her by the hand, without any wish to 
hurt her. 

A very rough and headstrong road was 
all that she remembered, for she could not 
think as she wished to do, with the cold iron 
pushed against her. At the end of this road 
they delivered her eyes, and she could scarce 
believe them. 

For she stood at the head of a deep green 
valley, carved from out the mountains in 
a perfect oval, with a fence of sheer rock 
standing round it, eighty feet or a hundred 
high, from whose brink black wooded hills 
swept up to the sky-line. By her side a lit- 
tle river glided out from under-ground with 
a soft dark babble, unawares of daylight ; 
then growing brighter, lapsed away, and 
fell into the valley. There, as it ran down 
the meadow, alders stood on either marge, 
and grass was blading out upon it, and yel- 
low tufts of rushes gathered, looking at the 
hurry. But farther down, on either bank, 
were covered houses, built of stone, square 
and roughly cornered, set as if the brook 
were meant to be the street between them. 
Only one room high they were, and not 
placed opposite each other, but in and out 
as skittles are; only that the first of all, 
which proved to be the captain’s, was a sort 
of double house, or rather two houses joined 
together by a plank-bridge over the river. 

Fourteen cots my mother counted, all very 
much of a pattern, and nothing to choose 
between them, unless it were the Captain’s. 
Deep in the quiet valley there, away from 
noise, and violence, and brawl, save that of 
the rivulet, any man would have deemed 
them homes of simple mind and innocence. 
Yet not a single house stood there but was 
the home of murder. 

Two men led my mother down a steep and 
gliddery stairway, like the ladder of a hay- 
mow, and thence from the break of the fall- 
ing water as far as the house of the captain. 
And there at the door they left her trem- 
bling, strung as she was, to speak her mind. 

“Now, after all, what right had she, a 
common farmer’s widow, to take it amiss 
that men of birth thought fit to kill her 
husband? And the Doones were of very 
high birth, as all we clods of Exmoor knew ; 
and we had enough of good teaching now — 
let any man say the contrary — to feel that 
all we had belonged of right to those above 
us. Therefore my mother was half ashamed 
that she could not help complaining. 

But after a little while, as she said, re- 
membrance of her husband came, and the 
way he used to stand by her side and put 
his strong arm round her, and how he liked 
his bacon fried, and praised her kindly for 
it — and so the tears were in her eyes, and 
nothing should gainsay them. 

A tall old man, Sir Ensor Doone, came out 
with a bill-hook in his hand, and hedger’s 
gloves going up his arms, as if he were no 


better than a laborer at ditch-work. Only 
in his mouth and eyes, his gait, and most of 
all his voice, even a child could know and 
feel that here was no ditcli-laborer. Good 
cause he has found since then, perhaps, to 
wish that he had been one. 

With his White locks moving upon his 
coat, he stopped and looked down at my 
mother, and she could not help herself but 
courtesy under the fixed black gazing. 

“ Good woman, you are none of us. Who 
has brought you hither? Young men must 
be young — but I have had too much of this 
work.” 

And he scowled at my mother for her 
comeliness; and yet looked under his eye- 
lids as if he liked her for it. But as for her, 
in the depth of love - grief, it struck scorn 
upon her womanhood ; and in the flash she 
spoke. 

“ What you mean, I know not. Traitors ! 
cut-throats ! cowards ! I am here to ask for 
my husband.” She could not say any more, 
because her heart was now too much for her, 
coming hard in her throat and mouth ; but 
she opened up her eyes at him. 

“Madam,” said Sir Ensor Doone — being 
born a gentleman, although a very bad one 
— “ I crave pardon of you. My eyes are old, 
or I might have known. Now, if we have 
your husband prisoner, he shall go free with- 
out ransom, because I have insulted you.” 

“ Sir,” said my mother, being suddenly 
taken away with sorrow because of his gra- 
cious manner, “ please to let me cry a bit.” 

He stood away, and seemed to know that 
women want no help for that. And by the 
way she cried he knew that they had killed 
her husband. Then, having felt of grief 
himself, he was not angry with her, but left 
her to begin again. 

“ Loath would I be,” said mother, sobbing 
with her new red handkerchief, and look- 
ing at the pattern of it, “loath indeed, Sir 
Ensor Doone, to accuse any one unfairly. 
But I have lost the very best husband God 
ever gave to a woman; and I knew him 
when he was to your belt, and I not up to 
your knee, sir ; and never an unkind word 
he spoke, nor stopped me short in speaking. 
All the herbs he left to me, and all the ba- 
con-curing, and when it was best to kill a 
pig, and how to treat the maidens. Not that 
I would ever wish — oh, John, it seems so 
strange to me, and last week you were ev- 
ery thing!” 

Here mother burst out crying again, not 
loudly, but turning quietly, because she 
knew that no one now would ever care to 
wipe the tears. And fifty or a hundred 
things, of weekly and daily happening, came 
across my mother, so that her spirit fell like 
slackening lime. 

“This matter must be seen to; it shall 
be seen to at once,” the old man answered, 
moved a little in spite of all his knowledge. 


LORNA DOONE. 


23 


“ Madam, if any wrong has been done, trust 
the honor of a Doone, I will redress it to 
my utmost. Come inside and rest yourself, 
while I ask about it. What was your good 
husband’s name, and when and where fell 
this mishap ?” 

“ Deary me,” said mother, as he set a chair 
for her very polite, but she would not sit 
upon it ; “ Saturday morning I was a wife, 
sir; and Saturday night I was a widow, 
and my children fatherless. My husband’s 
name was ‘ John Ridd,’ sir, as every body 
knows ; and there was not a finer or better 
man in Somerset or Devon. He was coming 
home from Porlock market, and a new gown 
for me on the crupper, and a shell to put my 
hair up — oh, J ohn, how good you were to me !” 

Of that she began to think again, and not 
to believe her sorrow, except as a dream 
from the evil one, because it was too bad 
upon her, and perhaps she would awake in 
a minute, and her husband would have the 
laugh of her. And so she wiped her eyes 
.and smiled, and looked for something. 

“Madam, this is a serious thing,” Sir 
Elisor Doone said graciously, and showing 
grave concern : “ my boys are a little wild, 
I know. And yet I can not think that they 
would willingly harm any one. And yet — 
.and yet, you do look wronged. Send Coun- 
selor to me,” he shouted, from the door of 
his house; and down the valley went the 
call, “ send Counselor to Captain.” 

Counselor Doone came in ere yet my moth- 
er was herself again ; and if any sight could 
astonish her when all her sense of right and 
wrong was gone astray with the force of 
things, it was the sight of the Counselor. 
A square-built man of enormous strength, 
but a foot below the Doone stature (which 
I shall describe hereafter), he carried a long 
gray beard descending to the leather of his 
belt. Great eyebrows overhung his face, 
like ivy on a pollard oak, and under them 
two large brown eyes, as of an owl when 
muting. And he had a power of hiding his 
eyes, or showing them bright, like a blazing 
fire. He stood there with his beaver off, 
and mother tried to look at him, but he 
seemed not to descry her. 

“ Counselor,” said Sir Ensor Doone, stand- 
ing back in his height from him, “here is a 
lady of good repute — ” 

“ Oh no, sir ; only a woman.” 

“Allow me, madam, by your good leave. 
Here is a lady, Counselor, of great repute in 
this part of the country, who charges the 
Doones with having unjustly slain her hus- 
band — ” 

“ Murdered him ! murdered him !” cried 
my mother; “if ever there was a murder. 
Oh, sir! oh, sir! you know it.” 

“ The perfect rights and truth of the case 
is all I wish to know,” said the old man, 
very loftily; “and justice shall be done, 
madam.” 


“ Oh, I pray you — pray you, sirs, make no 
matter of business of it. God from heaven, 
look on me !” «. 

“ Put the case,” said the Counselor. 

“The case is this,” replied Sir Ensor, 
holding one hand up to mother : “ This lady’s 
worthy husband was slain, it seems, upon 
his return from the market at Porlock, no 
longer ago than last Saturday night. Mad- 
am, amend me if I am wrong.” 

“ No longer, indeed, indeed, sir. Some- 
times it seems a twelvemonth, and some- 
times it seems an hour.” 

“ Cite his name,” said the Counselor, with 
his eyes still rolling inward. 

“‘Master John Ridd,’ as I understand. 
Counselor, we have heard of him often ; a 
worthy man and a peaceful one, who med- 
dled not with our duties. Now, if any of 
our boys have been rough, they shall answer 
it dearly. And yet I can scarce believe it. 
For the folk about t^ese parts are apt to 
misconceive of our sufferings, and to have no 
feeling for us. Counselor, you are our rec- 
ord, and very stern against us; tell us how 
this matter was.” 

“ Oh, Counselor !” my mother cried ; “ Sir 
Counselor, you will be fair ; I see it in your 
countenance. Only tell me who it was, and 
set me face to face with him ; and I will bless 
you, sir, and God shall bless you, and my 
children.” 

The square man with the long gray beard, 
quite unmoved by any thing, drew back to 
the door and spoke, and his voice was like 
a fall of stones in the bottom of a mine. 

“ Few words will be enow for this. Four 
or five of our best-behaved and most peace- 
ful gentlemen went to the little market at 
Porlock with a lump of money. They bought 
some household stores and comforts at a very 
high price, and pricked upon the homeward 
road, away from vulgar revelers. When 
they drew bridle to rest their horses, in the 
shelter of a peat-rick, the night being dark 
and sudden, a robber of great size and 
strength rode into the midst of them, think- 
ing to kill or terrify. His arrogance and 
hardihood at the first amazed them, but they 
would not give up without a blow goods 
which were on trust with them. He had 
smitten three of them senseless, for the pow- 
er of his arm was terrible ; whereupon the 
last man tried to ward his blow with a pis- 
tol. Carver, sir, it was, our brave and noble 
Carver, who saved the lives of his brethren 
and his own ; and glad enow they were to 
escape. Notwithstanding, we hoped it might 
be only a flesh-wound, and not to speed him 
in his sins.” 

As this atrocious tale of lies turned up 
joint by joint before her like a “devil’s 
coach-horse,”* mother was too much amazed 


* The cock-tailed beetle has earned this name in 
the West of England. 


24 


LORNA DOONE. 


to do any more than look at him, as if the 
earth must open. But the only thing that 
opened was the great brown eyes of the 
Counselor, which rested on my mother’s face 
with a dew of sorrow as he spoke of sins. 

She, unable to bear them, turned sudden- 
ly on Sir Ensor, and caught (as she fancied) 
a smile on his lips, and a sense of quiet en- 
joyment. 

“ All the Doones are gentlemen,” answer- 
ed the old man, gravely, and looking as if 
he had never smiled since he was a baby. 
u We are always glad to explain, madam, 
any mistake which the rustic people may 
fall upon about us ; and we wish you clear- 
ly to conceive that we do not charge your 
poor husband with any set purpose of rob- 
bery, neither will we bring suit for any at- 
tainder of his property. Is it not so, Coun- 
selor ?” 

“Without doubt his land is attainted; 
unless in mercy you forbear, sir.” 

“ Counselor, we will forbear. Madam, we 
will forgive him. Like enough he knew 
not right from wrong at that time of night. 
The waters are strong at Porlock, and even 
an honest man may use his staff unjustly in 
this unchartered age of violence and rapine.” 

The Doones to talk of rapine ! Mother’s 
head went round so that she courtesied to 
them both, scarcely knowing where she was, 
but calling to mind her manners. All the 
time she felt a warmth, as if the right was 
with her, and yet she could not see the way 
to spread it out before them. With that 
she dried her tears in haste, and went into 
the cold air, for fear of speaking mischief. 

But when she was on the homeward road, 
and the sentinels had charge of her, blinding 
her eyes, as if she were not blind enough 
with weeping, some one came in haste be- 
hind her and thrust a heavy leathern bag 
into the limp weight of her hand. 

“ Captain sends you this,” he whispered ; 
“ take it to the little ones.” 

But mother let it fall in a heap, as if it 
had been a blind worm ; and then for the 
first time crouched before God, that even the 
Doones should pity her. 


CHAPTER Y. 

AN ILLEGAL SETTLEMENT. 

Good folk who dwell in a lawful land, if 
any such there be, may, for want of explo- 
ration, judge our neighborhood harshly, un- 
less the whole truth is set before them. In 
bar of such prejudice, many of us ask leave 
to explain how and why it was the robbers 
came to that head in the midst of us. We 
would rather not have had it so, God knows 
as well as any body ; but it grew upon us 
gently, in the following manner. Only let 
all who read observe that here I enter many 


things which came to my knowledge in la* 
ter years. 

In or about the year of our Lord 1640, 
when all the troubles of England were swell- 
ing to an outburst, great estates in the north 
country were suddenly confiscated, through 
some feud of families and strong influence 
at Court, and the owners were turned upon 
the world, and might think themselves 
lucky to save their necks. These estates 
were in co- heirship, joint -tenancy I think 
they called it, although I know not the 
meaning, only so that if either tenant died, 
the other living, all would come to the live 
one in spite of any testament. 

One of the joint owners was Sir Ensor 
Doone, a gentleman of brisk intellect ; and 
the other owner was his cousin, the Earl of 
Lome and Dykemont. 

Lord Lome was some years the elder of 
his cousin Ensor Doone, and was making 
suit to gain severance of the cumbersome 
joint -tenancy by any fair apportionment, 
when suddenly this blow fell on them by 
wiles and woman’s meddling ; and instead of 
dividing the land, they were divided from it. 

The nobleman was still well-to-do, though 
crippled in his expenditure ; but as for the 
cousin, he was left a beggar, with many to 
beg from him. He thought that the other 
had wronged him, and that all the trouble 
of law befell through his unjust petition. 
Many friends advised him to make interest 
at Court ; for, having done no harm what- 
ever, and being a good Catholic, which Lord 
Lome was not, he would be sure to find 
hearing there, and probably some favor. 
But he, like a very hot - brained man, al- 
though he had long been married to the 
daughter of his cousin (whom he liked none 
the more for that), would have nothing to 
say to any attempt at making a patch of it, 
but drove away with his wife and sons, 
and the relics of his money, swearing hard 
at every body. In this he may have been 
quite wrong ; probably, perhaps he was so ; 
but I am not convinced at all but what 
most of us would have done the same. 

Some say that, in the bitterness of that 
wrong and outrage, he slew a gentleman of 
the Court, whom he supposed to have borne 
a hand in the plundering of his fortunes. 
Others say that he bearded King Charles 
the First himself, in a manner beyond for- 
giveness. One thing, at any rate, is sure — 
Sir Ensor was attainted, and made a felon 
outlaw, through some violent deed ensuing 
upon his dispossession. 

He had searched in many quarters for 
somebody to help him, and with good war- 
rant for hoping it, inasmuch as he, in his 
lucky days, had been open-handed and cous- 
inly to all who begged advice of him. But 
now all these provided him with plenty of 
good advice indeed, and great assurance of 
feeling, but not a movement of leg, or lip, or 


LORNA DOONE. 


25 


purse- string in his favor. All good people 
of either persuasion, royalty or commonal- 
ty, knowing his kitchen-range to he cold, 
no longer would play turnspit. And this, it 
may be, seared his heart more than the loss 
of land and fame. 

In great despair at last, he resolved to 
settle in some outlandish part, where none 
could be found to know him ; and so, in an 
evil day for us, he came to the West of En- 
gland. Not that our part of the world is at 
all outlandish, according to my view of it 
(for I never found a better one), but that it 
was known to be rugged, and large, and 
desolate. And here, when he had discovered 
a place which seemed almost to be made for 
him, so withdrawn, so self - defended, and 
uneasy of access, some of the country folk 
around brought him little otferings — a side 
of bacon, a keg of cider, hung mutton, or a 
brisket of venison ; so that for a little while 
he was very honest. But when the newness 
of his coming began to wear away, and our 
good folk were apt to think that even a 
gentleman ought to work or pay other men 
for doing it, and many farmers were grown 
weary of manners without discourse to them, 
and all cried out to one another how unfair 
it was that, owning such a fertile valley, 
young men would not spade or plow by rea- 
son of noble lineage — then the young Doones 
growing up took things they would not ask 
for. 

And here let me, as a solid man, owner of 
five hundred acres (whether fenced or other- 
wise, and that is my own business), church- 
warden also of this parish (until I go to the 
church -yard), and proud to be called the 
parson’s friend — for a better man I never 
knew with tobacco and strong waters, nor 
one who could read the lessons so well, and 
he has been at Blundell’s too — once for all 
let me declare, that I am a thorough-going 
Church-and-State man, and Royalist, with- 
out any mistake about it. And this I lay 
down, because some people, judging a sau- 
sage by the skin, may take in evil part my 
little glosses of style and glibness, and the 
mottled nature of my remarks, and cracks 
now and then on the frying-pan. I assure 
them I am good inside, and not a bit of rue 
in me; only queer knots, as of marjoram, 
and a stupid manner of bursting. 

There was not more than a dozen of them, 
counting a few retainers who still held by 
Sir Ensor ; but soon they grew and multi- 
plied in a manner surprising to think of. 
Whether it was the venison, which we call 
a strengthening victual, or whether it was 
the Exmoor mutton, or the keen soft air of 
the moor-lands, anyhow the Doones increased 
much faster than their honesty. At first 
they had brought some ladies with them, of 
good repute with charity ; and then, as time 
went on, they added to their stock by carry- 
ing. They carried off many good farmers’ 


daughters, who were sadly displeased at 
first ; but took to them kindly after a while, 
and made a new home in their babies. For 
women, as it seems to me, like strong men 
more than weak ones, feeling that they need 
some staunchness, something to hold fast 
by. 

And of all the men in our country, al- 
though we are of a thickset breed, you 
scarce could find one in threescore fit to be 
placed among the Doones, without looking 
no more than a tailor. Like enough, we 
could meet them, man for man (if we chose 
all around the crown and the skirts of Ex- 
moor), and show them what a cross-buttock 
means, because we are so stuggy ; but in re- 
gard of stature, comeliness, and bearing, no 
woman would look twice at us. Not but 
what I myself, John Ridd, and one or two I 
know of — but it becomes me best not to talk 
of that, although my hair is gray. 

Perhaps their den might well have been 
stormed, and themselves driven out of the 
forest, if honest people had only agreed to 
begin with them at once when first they 
took to plundering. But having respect for 
their good birth, and pity for their misfor- 
tunes, and perhaps a little admiration at the 
justice of God, that robbed men now were 
robbers, the squires, and farmers, and shep- 
herds, at first did nothing more than grum- 
ble gently, or even make a laugh of it, each 
in the case of others. After a while they 
found the matter gone too far for laughter, 
as violence and deadly outrage stained the 
hand of robbery, until every woman clutch- 
ed her child, and every man turned pale at 
the very name of “Doone.” For the sons 
and grandsons of Sir Ensor grew up iu foul 
liberty, and haughtiness, aud hatred, to ut- 
ter scorn of God and man, and brutality to- 
ward dumb animals. There was only one 
good thing about them, if indeed it were 
good, to wit, their faith to one another, and 
truth to their w T ild aerie. But this only 
made them feared the more, so certain was 
the revenge they wreaked upon any who 
dared to strike a Doone. One night, some 
ten years ere I was born, when they were 
sacking a rich man’s house not very far 
from Minehead, a shot was fired at them in 
the dark, of which they took little notice, 
and only one of them knew that any harm 
was done.’ But when they were well on the 
homeward road, not having slain either man 
or woman, or even burned a house down, 
one of their number fell from his saddle, 
and died without so much as a groan. The 
youth had been struck, but would not com- 
plain, and perhaps took little heed of the 
wound, while he was bleeding inwardly. 
His brothers and cousins laid him softly 
on a bank of whortleberries, and just rode 
back to the lonely hamlet where he had 
taken his death- wound. No man nor wom- 
an was left in the morning, nor house for 


26 


LORNA DOONE. 


any to dwell in, only a child with its reason 
gone.* 

This affair made prudent people find more 
reasons to let them alone than to meddle 
with them ; and now they had so intrench- 
ed themselves, and waxed so strong in num- 
ber, that nothing less than a troop of sol- 
diers could wisely enter their premises ; and 
even so it might turn out ill, as perchance 
we shall see by-and-by. 

For not to mention the strength of the 
place, which I shall describe in its proper 
order when I come to visit it, there was not 
one among them but was a mighty man, 
straight and tall, and wide, and fit to lift 
four hundred-weight. If son or grandson 
of old Doone, or one of the northern retain- 
ers, failed at the age of twenty, while stand- 
ing on his naked feet, to touch with his 
forehead the lintel of Sir EnsoFs door, and 
to fill the door-frame with his shoulders 
from side-post even to side-post, he was led 
away to the narrow pass which made their 
valley so desperate, and thrust from the 
crown with ignominy, to get his own living 
honestly. Now, the measure of that door- 
way is, or rather was, I ought to say, six 
feet and one inch lengthwise, and two feet 
all but two inches taken cross-ways in the 
clear. Yet I not only have heard but know, 
being so closely mixed with them, that no 
descendant of old Sir Ensor, neither relative 
of his (except, indeed, the Counselor, who 
was kept by them for his wisdom), and no 
more than two of their following, ever fail- 
ed of that test, and relapsed to the difficult 
ways of honesty. 

Not that I think any thing great of a 
standard the like of that ; for if they had set 
me in that door-frame at the age of twenty, 
it is like enough that I should have walked 
away with it on my shoulders, though I was 
not come to my full strength then ; only I 
am speaking now of the average size of our 
neighborhood, and the Doones were far be- 
yond that. Moreover, they were taught to 
shoot with a heavy carbine so delicately and 
wisely, that even a boy could pass a ball 
through a rabbit’s head at the distance of 
fourscore yards. Some people may think 
naught of this, being in practice with longer 
shots from the tongue than from the shoul- 
der ; nevertheless, to do as abov^ is, to my 
Ignorance, very good work, if you can be 
sure to do it. Not one word do I believe of 
Robin Hood splitting peeled wands at seven- 
score yards, and such like. Whoever wrote 
such stories knew not how slippery a peeled 
wand is, even if one could hit it, and how it 
gives to the onset. Now let him stick one 
in the ground, and take his bow and arrow 
at it, ten yards away, or even five. 

Now, after all this which I have written, 
and all the rest which a reader will see, be- 


* This vile deed was done, beyond all doubt. 


ing quicker of mind than I am (who leave 
more than half behind me, like a man sow- 
ing wheat, with his dinner laid in the ditch 
too near his dog), it is much but what you 
will understand the Doones far better than 
I did, or do even to this moment ; and there- 
fore none will doubt when I tell them that 
our good justiciaries feared to make an ado, 
or hold any public inquiry about my dear 
father’s death. They would all have had 
to ride home that night, and who could say 
what might betide them ? Least said soon- 
est mended, because less chance of break- 
ing. 

So we buried him quietly — all except my 
mother, indeed, for she could not keep silence 
— in the sloping little church-yard of Oare, 
as meek a place as need be, with the Lynn 
brook down below it. There is not much 
of company there for any body’s tombstone, 
because the parish spreads so far in woods 
and moors without dwelling-house. If we 
bury one man in three years, or even a wom- 
an or child, we talk about it for three 
months, and say it must be our turn next, 
and scarcely grow accustomed to it until 
another goes. 

Annie was not allowed to come, because 
she cried so terribly; but she ran to the 
window and saw it all, mooing there like a 
little calf, so frightened and so left alone. 
As for Eliza, she came with me, one on each 
side of mother, and not a tear was in her 
eyes, but sudden starts of wonder, and a new 
thing to be looked at unwillingly, yet curi- 
ously. Poor little thing ! she was very clev- 
er, the only one of our family — thank God 
for the same — but none the more for that 
guessed she what it is to lose a father. 

<*, 

CHAPTER VI. 

NECESSARY PRACTICE. 

About the rest of all that winter I remem- 
ber very little, being only a young boy then, 
and missing my father most out-of-doors, 
as when it came to the bird-catching, or the 
tracking of hares in the snow, or the train- 
ing of a sheep-dog. Oftentimes I looked at 
his gun, an ancient piece found in the sea, 
a little below Glenthorne, and of which he 
was mighty proud, although it was only a 
matchlock; and I thought of the times I 
had held the fuse, while he got his aim at a 
rabbit, and once even at a red deer rubbing 
among the hazels. But nothing came of my 
looking at it, so far as I remember, save fool- 
ish tears of my own perhaps, till John Fry 
took it down one day from the hooks where 
father’s hand had laid it ; and it hurt me to 
see how John handled it, as if he had no 
memory. 

“ Bad job for he as her had not got thiccy 
I the naight as her coom acrass them Doones. 


LORNA DOONE. 


27 


Rackon Yarmer Jan ’ood a-zliown them tlie 
wai to kingdom come, ’stead of gooin’ her- 
zell zo aisy. And a maigkt have been gooin’ 
to market now, ’stead of laying banked up 
over yanner. Maister Jan, tbee can zee tbe 
grave if thee look alang this here goon- 
barryel. Buy now, whutt be blubberin’ at ? 
Wish I had never told thee.” 

“John Fry, I am not blubbering; yon 
make a great mistake, John. You are think- 
ing of little Annie. I cough sometimes in 
the winter -weather, and father gives me 
lickerish— I mean — I mean — he used to. 
Now let me have the gun, John.” 

“Thee have the goon, Jan! Thee isn’t 
fit to putt un to thy zhoulder. What a 
weight her be, for sure !” • 

“ Me not hold it, John ! That shows how 
much you know about it. Get out of the 
way, John ; you are opposite the mouth of 
it, and likely it is loaded.” 

John Fry jumped in a livelier manner 
than when he was doing day-work; and I 
rested the mouth on a cross rack-piece, and 
felt a warm sort of surety that I could hit 
the door over opposite, or, at least, the cob- 
wall alongside of it, and do no harm in the 
orchard. But John would not give me link 
or fuse, and, on the whole, I was glad of it, 
though carrying on as boys do, because I had 
heard my father say that the Spanish gun 
kicked like a horse, and because the load in 
it came from his hand, and I did not like to 
undo it. But I never found it kick very 
hard, when firmly set to the shoulder, unless 
it was badly loaded. In truth, the thickness 
of the metal was enough almost to astonish 
one ; and what our people said about it may 
have been true enough, although most of 
them are such liars — at least, I mean they 
make mistakes, as all mankind must do. 
Perchance it was no mistake at all to say 
that this ancient gun had belonged to a no- 
ble Spaniard, the captain of a fine large ship 
in the “Invincible Armada,” which we of 
England managed to conquer, with God and 
the weather helping us, a hundred years ago 
or more — I can’t say to a month or so. 

After a little while, when John had fired 
away at a rat the charge I held so sacred, it 
came to me as a natural thing to practice 
shooting with that great gun, instead of 
John Fry’s blunderbuss, which looked like a 
bell with a stalk to it. Perhaps for a boy 
there is nothing better than a good wind- 
mill to shoot at, as I have seen them in flat 
countries ; but we have no windmills upon 
the great moor-land, yet here and there a few 
barn doors, where shelter is, and a way up 
the hollows. And up those hollows you can 
shoot, with the help of the sides to lead your 
aim, and there is a fair chance of hitting the 
door, if you lay your cheek to the barrel, and 
try not to be afraid of it. 

Gradually I won such skill, that I sent 
nearly all the lead gutter from the north 


porch of our little church through our best 
barn door, a thing which has often repent- 
ed me since, especially as church-warden, 
and made me pardon many bad boys; but 
father was not buried on that side of the 
church. 

But all this time, while I was roving over 
the hills or about the farm, and even listen- 
ing to John Fry, my mother, being so much 
older and feeling trouble longer, went about 
inside the house, or among tbe maids and 
fowls, not caring to talk to the best of them, 
except when she broke out sometimes about 
the good master they had lost, all and every 
one of us. But the fowls would take no no- 
tice of it, except to cluck for barley; and 
the maidens, though they had liked him well, 
were thinking of their sweethearts as the 
spring came on. Mother thought it wrong 
of them, selfish, and ungrateful; and yet 
sometimes she was proud that none had such 
call as herself to grieve for him. Only An- 
nie seemed to go softly in and out, and cry, 
with nobody along of her, chiefly in the cor- 
ner where the bees are and the grindstone. 
But somehow she would never let any body 
behold her; being set, as you may say, to 
think it over by herself, and season it with 
weeping. Many times I caught her, and 
many times she turned upon me, and then I 
could not look at her, but asked how long to 
dinner-time. 

Now in the depth of the winter month, 
such as we call December, father being dead 
and quiet in his grave a fortnight, it hap- 
pened me to be out of powder for practice 
against his enemies. I had never fired a 
shot without thinking, “This for father’s 
murderer;” and John Fry said that I made 
such faces it was a wonder the gun went off. 
But though I could hardly hold the gun, 
unless with my back against a bar, it did me 
good to hear it go off, and hope to have hit- 
ten his enemies. 

“ Oh, mother, mother,” I said that day, 
directly after dinner, while she was sitting 
looking at me, and almost ready to say (as 
now she did seven times in a week), “ How 
like your father you are growing! Jack, 
come here and kiss me” — “oh, mother, if you 
only knew how much I want a shilling!” 

“Jack, you shall never want a shilling 
while I am alive to give thee one. But what 
is it for, dear heart, dear heart ?” 

“ To buy something over at Porlock, moth- 
er. Perhaps I will tell you afterward. If 
I tell not, it will be for your good, and for 
the sake of the children.” 

“Bless the boy, one would think he was 
threescore years of age at least. Give me a 
little kiss, you Jack, and you shall have the 
shilling.” 

For I hated to kiss or be kissed in those 
days ; and so all honest boys must do, when 
God puts any strength in them. But now I 
wanted the powder so much, that I went and 


28 


LOENA DOONE. 


kissed mother very shyly, looking round the 
corner first, for Betty not to see me. 

But mother gave me half a dozeu, and only 
one shilling for all of them ; and I could not 
find it in my heart to ask her for another, 
although I would have taken it. In very 
quick time I ran away with the shilling in 
my pocket, and got Peggy out on the Por- 
lock road without my mother knowing it. 
For mother was frightened of that road now, 
as if all the trees were murderers, and would 
never let me go alone so much as a hundred 
yards on it. And, to tell the truth, I was 
touched with fear for many years about it ; 
and even now, when I ride at dark there, a 
man by a peat-rick makes me shiver, until 
I go and collar him. But this time I was 
very bold, having John Fry’s blunderbuss, 
and keeping a sharp lookout wherever any 
lurking-place was. However, I saw only 
sheep and small red cattle, and the common 
deer of the forest, until I was nigh to Porlock 
town, and then rode straight to Mr. Pooke’s, 
at the sign of the Spit and Gridiron. 

Mr. Pooke was asleep, as it happened, not 
having much to do that day ; and so I fast- 
ened Peggy by the handle of a warming- 
pan, at which she had no better manners 
than to snort and blow her breath ; and in 
I walked with a manful style, bearing John 
Fry’s blunderbuss. No w Timothy Pooke was 
a peaceful man, glad to live without any en- 
joyment of mind at danger, and I was tall 
and large already as most lads of a riper age. 
Mr. Pooke, as soon as he opened his eyes, drop- 
ped suddenly under the counter-board, and 
drew a great frying-pan over his head, as if 
the Doones were come to rob him, as their 
custom was, mostly after the fair-time. It 
made me feel rather hot and queer to be 
taken for a robber; and yet methinks I 
was proud of it. 

“ Gadzooks, Master Pooke,” said I, having 
learned fine words at Tiverton ; “ do you sup- 
pose that I know not then the way to carry 
fire-arms ? An it were the old Spanish match- 
lock, in the lieu of this good flint-engine, 
which may be borne ten miles or more and 
never once go off, scarcely couldst thou seem 
more scared. I might point at thee muzzle 
on — just so as I do now — even for an hour 
or more, and like enough it would never 
shoot thee, unless I pulled the trigger hard, 
with a crook upon my finger ; so, you see ; 
just so, Master Pooke, only a trifle harder.” 

“ God sake, John Eidd, God sake, dear boy,” 
cried Pooke, knowing me by this time ; 
“ don’t ’e, for good love now, don’t ’e show 
it to me, boy, as if I was to suck it. Put 
7 un down, for good, now ; and thee shall 
have the very best of all is in the shop.” 

“ Ho !” I replied with much contempt, and 
swinging round the gun so that it fetched 
his hoop of candles down, all unkindled as 
they were : “Ho! as if I had not attained to 
the handling of a gun yet ! My hands are 


i cold coming over the moors, else would I go 
j bail to point the mouth at you for an hour, 
sir, and no cause for uneasiness.” 

But in spite of all assurances, he showed 
himself desirous only to see the last of my 
gun and me. I dare say “villainous salt- 
petre,” as the great playwright calls it, was 
never so cheap before nor since. For my 
shilling, Master Pooke afforded me two great 
packages over-large to go into my pockets, 
as well as a mighty chunk of lead, which I 
bound upon Peggy’s withers. And as if all 
this had not been enough, he presented me 
with a roll of comfits for my sister Annie, 
whose gentle face and pretty manners won 
the love of every body. 

Therd was still some daylight here and 
there as I rose the hill above Porlock, won- 
dering whether my mother would be in a 
fright, or would not know it. The two great 
packages of powder, slung behind my back, 
knocked so hard against one another that I 
feared they must either spill or blow up, and 
hurry me over Peggy’s ears from the woolen 
cloth I rode upon. For father always liked 
a horse to have some wool upon his loins 
whenever he went far from home and had 
to stand about, where one pleased, hot, and 
wet, and panting. And father always said 
that saddles were meant for men full-grown, 
and heavy, and losing their activity ; and no 
boy or young man on our farm durst ever get 
iuto a saddle, because they all knew that the 
master would chuck them out pretty quick- 
ly. As for me, I had tried it once, from a 
kind of curiosity ; and I could not walk for 
two or three days, the leather galled my 
knees so. But now, as Peggy bore me brave- 
ly, snorting every now and then into a cloud 
of air, for the night was growing frosty, pres- 
ently the moon arose over the shoulder of a 
hill, and the pony and I were half glad to 
see her, and half afraid of the shadow she 
threw, and the images all around us. I was 
ready at any moment to shoot at any body, 
having great faith in my blunderbuss, but 
hoping not to prove it. And as I passed the 
narrow place where the Doones had killed 
my father, such a fear broke out upon me 
that I leaned upon the neck of Peggy, and 
shut my eyes and was cold all over. How- 
ever, there was not a soul to be seen, un- 
til we came home to the old farm-yard, and 
there was my mother crying sadly, and Bet- 
ty Muxworthy scolding. 

“ Come along, now,” I whispered to Annie, 
the moment supper was over; “aud if you 
can hold your tongue, Annie, I will show 
you something.” 

She lifted herself on the bench so quickly, 
and flushed so rich with pleasure, that I was 
obliged to stare hard away, and make Betty 
look beyond us. Betty thought I had some- 
thing hid in the closet beyond the clock- 
case, and she was the more convinced of it 
by reason of my denial. Not that Betty 


LORNA DOONE. 


29 


Muxworthy, or any one else, for that mat- 
ter, ever found me in a falsehood, because I 
never told one, not even to my mother — or, 
which is still a stronger thing, not even to 
my sweetheart (when I grew up to have 
one) — but that Betty being wronged in 
the matter of marriage, a generation or two 
agone, by a man who came hedging and 
ditching, had now no mercy, except to be- 
lieve that men from cradle to grave are 
liars, and women fools to look at them. 

When Betty could find no crime of mine, 
she knocked me out of the way in a minute, 
as if I had been nobody; and then she be- 
gan to coax “ Mistress Annie,” as she always 
called her, and draw the soft hair down 
her hands, and whisper into the little ears. 
Meanwhile, dear mother was falling asleep, 
having been troubled so much about me; 
and “ Watch,” my father’s pet dog, was nod- 
ding closer and closer up into her lap. 

“ Now, Annie, will you come?” I said, for 
I wanted her to hold the ladle for melting 
of the lead ; “ will you come at once, Annie ? 
or must I go for Lizzie, and let her see the 
whole of it.” 

“ Indeed, then, you won’t do that,” said 
Annie ; “ Lizzie to come before me, John ; 
and she can’t stir a pot of brewis, and scarce 
knows a tongue from a ham, John, and says 
it makes no difference, because both are good 
to eat ! Oh, Betty, what do you think of 
that to come of all her book-learning ?” 

“Thank God he can’t say that of me,” 
Betty answered shortly, for she never cared 
about argument, except on her own side; 
“thank he, I says, every marnin a’most, 
never to lead me astray so. Men is desav- 
ing, and so is galanies ; but the most desav- 
ing of all is books, with their heads and 
tails, and the speckots in ’em, lik a peg as 
have taken the maisles. Some folk por- 
tends to laugh and cry over them. God 
forgive them for liars !” 

It was part of Betty’s obstinacy that she 
never would believe in reading or the pos- 
sibility of it, but stoutly maintained to the 
very last that people first learned things by 
heart, and then pretended to make them out 
from patterns done upon paper, for the sake 
of astonishing honest folk, just as do the 
conj urers. And even to see the parson and 
clerk was not enough to convince her; all 
she said was, “ It made no odds, they were 
all the same as the rest of us.” And now 
that she had been on the farm nigh upon 
forty years, and had nursed my father, and 
made liis clothes, and all that he had to eat, 
and then put him in his coffin, she was come 
to such authority, that it was not worth the 
wages of the best man on the place to say a 
word in answer to Betty, even if he would 
face the risk to have ten for one, or twenty. 

Annie was her love and joy. For Annie 
she would do any thing, even so far as to 
try to smile, when the little maid laughed 


and danced to her. And in truth I know 
not how it was, but every one was taken 
with Annie at the very first time of seeing 
her. She had such pretty ways and man- 
ners, and such a look of kindness, and a 
sweet soft light in her long blue eyes full 
of trustful gladness. Every body who look- 
ed at her seemed to grow the better for it, 
because she knew no evil. And then the 
turn she had for cooking, you never would 
have expected it ; and how it was her rich- 
est mirth to see that she had pleased you. 
I have been out on the world a vast deal, as 
you will own hereafter, and yet have I nev- 
er seen Annie’s equal for making a weary 
man comfortable. 


CHAPTER VII. 

HARD IT IS TO CLIMB. 

So many a winter -night went by in a 
hopeful and pleasant manner, with the hiss- 
ing of the bright round bullets, cast into the 
water, and the spluttering of the great red ap- 
ples which Annie was roasting for me. We 
always managed our evening’s work in the 
chimney of the back - kitchen, where there 
was room to set chairs and table, in spite of 
the fire burning. On the right-hand side 
was a mighty oven, where Betty threatened 
to bake us ; and on the left, long sides of 
bacon, made of favored pigs, and growing 
very brown and comely. Annie knew the 
names of all, and ran up through the wood- 
smoke, every now and then, when a gentle 
memory moved her, and asked them how 
they were getting on, and when they would 
like to be eaten. Then she came back with 
foolish tears, at thinking of that necessity ; 
and I, being soft in a different way, would 
make up my mind against bacon. 

But, Lord bless you! it was no good. 
Whenever it came to breakfast - time, after 
three hours upon the moors, I regularly for- 
got the pigs, but paid good heed to the rash- 
ers. For ours is a hungry country, if such 
there be in England ; a place, I mean, where 
men must eat, and are quick to discharge 
the duty. The air of the moors is so shrewd 
and wholesome, stirring a man’s recollection 
of the good things which have betided him, 
and whetting his hope of something still 
better in the future, that by the time he sits 
down to a cloth, his heart and stomach are 
tuned too well to say “ nay ” to one another. 

Almost every body knows, in our part of 
the world at least, how pleasant and soft 
the fall of the land is round about Plover’s 
Barrows farm. All above it is strong dark 
mountain, spread with heath, and desolate, 
but near our house the valleys cove, and 
open warmth and shelter. Here are trees, 
and bright green grass, and orchards full of 
contentment, and a man may scarce espy 


30 


LORNA DOONE. 


the brook, although he hears it everywhere, j 
And indeed a stout good piece of it comes 
through our farm -yard, and swells some- 
times to a rush of waves, when the clouds 
are on the hill-tops. But all below, where 
the valley bends, and the Lynn stream goes 
along with it, pretty meadows slope their 
breast, and the sun spreads on the water. 
And nearly all of this is ours till you come 
to Nicholas Snowe’s land. 

But about two miles below our farm, the 
Bagworthy water runs into the Lynn, and 
makes a real river of it. Thence it hurries 
away, with strength and a force of willful 
waters, under the foot of a barefaced hill, 
and so to rocks and woods again, where the 
stream is covered over, and dark, heavy 
pools delay it. There are plenty of fish all 
down this way, and the farther you go.the 
larger they get, having deeper grounds to 
feed in ; and sometimes in the summer 
months, when mother could spare me off the 
farm, I came down here, with Annie to help 
(because it was so lonely), and caught well- 
nigh a basketful of little trout and minnows, 
with a hook and a bit of worm on it, or a 
fern- web, or a blow-fly, hung from a hazel 
pulse-stick. For of all the things I learned 
at Blundell’s, only two abode with me ; and 
one of these was the knack of fishing, and 
the other the art of swimming. And indeed 
they have a very rude manner of teaching 
children to swim there ; for the big boys 
take the little boys, and put them through 
a certain process, which they grimly call 
“sheep- washing.” In the third meadow 
from the gate of the school, going up the 
river, there is a fine pool in the Lowman, 
where the Taunton brook comes in, and they 
call it the “ Taunton pool.” The water runs 
down with a strong, sharp stickle, and then 
has a sudden elbow in it, where the small 
brook trickles in ; and on that side the bank 
is steep, four or it may be five feet high, 
overhanging loamily ; but on the other side 
it is flat, pebbly, and fit to land upon. Now 
the large boys take the small boys, crying 
sadly for mercy, and thinking, mayhap, of 
their mothers; with hands laid well at the 
back of their necks, they bring them up to 
the crest of the bank upon the eastern side, 
and make them strip their clothes off. Then 
the little boys, falling on their naked knees, 
blubber upward piteously ; but the large 
boys know what is good for them, and will 
not be entreated. So they cast them down, 
one after other, into the splash of the water, 
and watch them go to the bottom first, and 
then come up and fight for it, with a blow- 
ing and a bubbling. It is a very fair sight 
to watch, when you know there is little dan- 
ger, because, although the pool is deep, the 
current is sure to wash a boy up on the 
stones, where the end of the depth is. As 
for me, they had no need to throw me more 
than once, because I jumped of my own ac- 


cord, thinking small things of the Low- 
man, after the violent Lynn. Nevertheless,. 
I learned to swim there, as all the other 
boys did ; for the greatest point in learning 
that is to find that you must do it. I loved 
the water naturally, and could not long be 
out of it; but even the boys who hated it 
most came to swim in some fashion or other, 
after they had been flung for a year or two 
into the Taunton pool. 

But now, although my sister Annie came 
to keep me company, and was not to be 
parted from me by the tricks of the Lynn 
stream, because I put her on my back and 
carried her across, whenever she could not 
leap it, or tuck up her things and take the 
stones; yet so it happened that neither of 
us had been up the Bagworthy water. We 
knew that it brought a good stream down, 
as full of fish as of pebbles ; and we thought 
that it must be very pretty to make a way 
where no way was, nor even a bullock came 
down to drink. But whether we were afraid 
or not, I am sure I can not tell, because it is 
so long ago ; but I think that had something 
to do with it. For Bagworthy water ran 
out of Doone Valley, a mile or so from the 
mouth of it. 

But when I was turned fourteen years old, 
and put into good small-clothes, buckled 
at the knee, and strong blue worsted hosen, 
knitted by my mother, it happened to me 
wdthout choice, I may say, to explore the 
Bagworthy water. And it came about in 
this wise : 

My mother had long been ailing, and not 
well able to eat much ; and there is noth- 
ing that frightens us so much as for people 
to have no love of their victuals. Now I 
chanced to remember that once at the time 
of the holidays I had brought dear mother 
from Tiverton a jar of pickled loaches, 
caught by myself in the Lowman River, and 
baked in the kitchen oven, with vinegar, a 
few leaves of bay, and about a dozen pepper- 
corns. And mother had said that in all her 
life she had never tasted any thing fit to bo 
compared with them. Whether she said so 
good a thing out of compliment to my skill 
in catching the fish and cooking them, or 
whether she really meant it, is more than I 
can tell, though I quite believe the latter, 
and so would most people who tasted them \ 
at any rate, I now resolved to get some 
loaches for her, and do them in the self-same 
manner, just to make her eat a bit. 

There are many people, even now, who 
have not come to the right knowledge what 
a loach is, and where he lives, and how to 
catch and pickle him. And I will not tell 
them all about it, because if I did, very like- 
ly there would be no loaches left ten or twen- 
ty years after the appearance of this book. 
A pickled minnow is very good, if you catch 
him in a stickle, with the scarlet fingers 
upon him; but I count him no more than 


LORNA DOONE. 


31 


the ropes in beer compared with a loach 
done properly. 

Beiug resolved to catch some loaches, 
whatever trouble it cost me, I set forth 
without a word to any one, in the forenoon 
of St. Valentine’s day, 1675-6, I think it 
must have been. Annie should not come 
with me, because the water was too cold; 
for the winter had been long, and snow lay 
here and there in patches in the hollow 
of the banks, like a lady’s gloves forgotten. 
And yet the spring was breaking forth, as 
it always does in Devonshire, when the turn 
of the days is over; and though there was 
little to see of it, the air was full of feeling. 

It puzzles me now that I remember all 
those young impressions so, because I took 
no heed of them at the time whatever ; and 
yet they come upon me bright, when noth- 
ing else is evident in the gray fog of experi- 
ence. I am like an old man gazing at the 
outside of his spectacles, and seeing, as he 
rubs the dust, the image of his grandson 
playing at bo-peep with him. 

But let me be of any age, I never could 
forget that day, and how bitter cold the wa- 
ter was. For I doffed my shoes and hose, 
and put them into a bag about my neck, 
and left my little coat at home, and tied my 
shirt-sleeves back to my shoulders. Then I 
took a three-pronged fork firmly bound to a 
rod with cord, and a piece of canvas kerchief 
with a lump of bread inside it; and so went 
into the pebbly water, trying to think how 
warm it was. For more than a mile all 
down the Lynn stream, scarcely a stone I 
left unturned, being thoroughly skilled in 
the tricks of the loach, and knowing how 
he hides himself. For being gray-spotted, 
and clear to see through, and something like 
a cuttle-fish, only more substantial, he will 
stay quite still where a streak of weed is 
in the rapid \yater, hoping to be overlooked, 
nor caring even to wag his tail. Then, be- 
ing disturbed, he flips away, like whalebone 
from the finger, and hies to a shelf of stone, 
and lies with his sharp head poked in un- 
der it ; or sometimes he bellies him into the 
mud, and only shows his back-ridge. And 
that is the time to spear him nicely, holding 
the fork very gingerly, and allowing for the 
bent of it, which comes to pass, I know not 
how, at the tickle of air and water. 

Or, if your loach should not be abroad 
when first you come to look for him, but 
keeping snug in his little home, then you 
may see him come forth amazed at the 
quivering of the shingles, and oar himself 
and look at you, and then dart up stream, 
like a little gray streak ; and then you must 
try to mark him in, and follow very dain- 
tily. So after that, in a sandy place, you 
steal up behind his tail to him, so that he 
can not set eyes on you, for his head is up 
stream always, and there you see him abid- 
ing still, clear, and mild, and affable. Then, 


as he looks so innocent, you make full sure 
to prog him well, in spite of the wry of the 
water, and the sun making elbows to every 
thing, and the trembling of your fingers. 
But when you gird at him lovingly, and 
have as good as gotten him,lo! in the go- 
by of the river he is gone as a shadow goes, 
and only a little cloud of mud curls away 
from the points of the fork. 

A long way down that limpid water, chill 
and bright as an iceberg, went my little self 
that day on man’s choice errand — destruc- 
tion. All the young fish seemed to know 
that I was one who had tak(#i out God’s 
certificate, and meant to have the value of 
it ; every one of them was aware that we 
desolate more than replenish the earth. For 
a cow might come and look into the water, 
and put her yellow lips down ; a kingfisher, 
like a blue arrow, might shoot through the 
dark alleys over the channel, or sit on a dip- 
ping withy-bough with his beak sunk into 
his breast-feathers ; even an otter might float 
down stream, likening himself to a log of 
wood, with his flat head flush with the wa- 
ter-top, and his oily eyes peering quietly; 
and yet no panic would seize other life, as it 
does when a sample of man comes. 

Now let not any one suppose that I thought 
of these things when I was young, for I knew 
not the way to do it. And proud enough in 
truth I was at the universal fear I spread in 
all those lonely places, where I myself must 
have been afraid, if any thing had come up 
to me. It is all very pretty to see the trees 
big with their hopes of another year, though 
dumb as yet on the subject, and the waters 
murmuring gayety, and the banks spread 
out with comfort ; but a boy takes none of 
this to heart, unless he be meant for a poet 
(which God can never charge upon me), and 
he would liefer have a good apple, or even 
a bad one, if he stole it. 

When I had traveled two miles or so, con- 
quered now and then with cold, and coming 
out to rub my legs into a lively friction, and 
only fishing here and there because of the 
tumbling water ; suddenly, in an open space, 
where meadows spread about it, I found a 
good stream flowing softly into the body of 
our brook. And it brought, so far as I could 
guess by the sweep of it under my knee-caps, 
a larger power of clear water than the Lynn 
itself had ; only it came more quietly down, 
not being troubled with stairs and steps, 
as the fortune of the Lynn is, but gliding 
smoothly and forcibly, as if upon some set 
purpose. 

Hereupon I drew up and thought, and 
reason was much inside me; because the 
water was bitter cold, and my little toes 
were aching. So on the bank I rubbed 
them well with a sprout of young sting-net- 
tle, and having skipped about a while, was 
kindly inclined to eat a bit. 

Now all the turn of all my life hung upon 


32 


LORNA DOONE. 


that moment. But as I sat there munching 
a crust of Betty Muxwortliy’s sweet brown 
bread, and a bit of cold bacon along with it, 
and kicking my little red heels against the 
dry loam to keep them warm, I knew no 
more than fish under the fork what was go- 
ing on over me. It seemed a sad business 
to go back now and tell Annie there were 
no loaches ; and yet it was a frightful thing, 
knowing what I did of it, to venture, where 
no grown man durst, up the Bagworthy 
water. And please to recollect that I was 
only a boy in those days, fond enough of any 
thing new, tyrt not like a man to meet it. 

However, as I ate more and more, my spirit 
arose within me, and I thought of what my 
father had been, and how he had told me a 
hundred times never to be a coward. And 
then I grew warm, and my little heart was 
ashamed of its pitapating, and I said to 
myself, “Now if father looks, he shall see 
that I obey him.” So I put the bag round 
my neck again, and buckled my breeches 
far up from the knee, expecting deeper wa- 
ter, and crossing the Lynn, went stoutly up 
under the branches which hang so dark on 
the Bagworthy river. 

I found it strongly overwoven, turned, 
and torn with thicket - wood, but not so 
rocky as the Lynn, and more inclined to go 
evenly. There were bars of chafed stakes 
stretched from the sides half-way across the 
current, and light outriders of pithy weed, 
and blades of last year’s water-grass trem- 
bling in the quiet places, like a spider’s 
threads, on the transparent stillness, with a 
tint of olive moving it. And here and there 
the sun came in, as if his light was sifted, 
making dance upon the waves, and shadow- 
ing the pebbles. 

Here, although affrighted often by the 
deep, dark places, and feeling that every 
step I took might never be taken backward, 
on the whole I had very comely sport of 
loaches, trout, and minnows, forking some, 
and tickling some, and driving others to 
shallow nooks, whence I could bail them 
ashore. Now, if you have ever been fishing, 
you will not wonder that I was led on, for- 
getting all about danger, and taking no heed 
of the time, but shouting in a childish w r ay 
whenever I caught a “ whacker ” (as we 
called a big fish at Tiverton) ; and in sooth 
there were very fine loachers here, having 
more lie and harborage than in the rough 
Lynn stream, though not quite so large as 
in the Lowman, where I have even taken 
them to the weight of half a pound. 

But in answer to all my shouts there nev- 
er was any sound at all, except of a rocky 
echo, or a scared bird hustling away, or the 
sudden dive of a water-vole ; and the place 
grew thicker and thicker, and the covert 
grew darker above me, until I thought that 
the fishes might have good chance of eating 
me, instead of my eating the fishes. 


For now the day was falling fast behind 
the brown of the hill-tops ; and the trees, 
being void of leaf and hard, seemed giants 
ready to beat me. And every moment as 
the sky was clearing up for a white frost, 
the cold of the water got worse and worse, 
until I was fit to cry with it. And so, in a 
sorry plight, I came to an opening in the 
bushes, where a great black pool lay in front 
of me, whitened with snow (as I thought) 
at the sides, till I saw it was only foam- 
froth. 

Now, though I could swim with great ease 
and comfort, and feared no depth of water, 
when I could fairly come to it, yet I had no 
desire to go over head and ears into this 
great pool, being so cramped and weary, and 
cold enough in all conscience, though wet 
only up to the middle, not counting my arms 
and shoulders. And the look of this black 
pit was enough to stop one from diving into 
it, even on a hot summer’s day with sun- 
shine on the water ; I mean, if the sun ever 
shone there. As it was, I shuddered and 
drew back ; not alone at the pool itself and 
the black air there was about it, but also at 
the whirling manner, and wisping of white 
threads upon it in stripy circles round and 
round ; and the centre still as jet. 

But soon I saw the reason of the stir and 
depth of that great pit, as well as of the roar- 
ing sound which long had made me wonder. 
For skirting round one side, with very little 
comfort, because the rocks were high and 
steep, and the ledge at the foot so narrow, 
I came to a sudden sight and marvel, such 
as I never dreamed of. For, lo ! I stood at 
the foot of a long pale slide of water, com- 
ing smoothly to me, without any break or 
hinderance, for a hundred yards or more, 
and fenced on either side with cliff, sheer, 
and straight, and shining. The water nei- 
ther ran nor fell, nor leaped with any spout- 
ing, but made one even slope of it, as if it 
had been combed or planed, and looking 
like a plank of deal laid down a deep black 
staircase. However, there was no side-rail, 
nor any place to walk upon, only the chan- 
nel a fathom wide, and the perpendicular 
walls of crag shutting out the evening. 

The look of this place had a sad effect, 
scaring me very greatly, and making me feel 
that I would give something only to be at 
home again, with Annie cooking my sup- 
per, and our dog, “Watch,” sniffing upward. 
But nothing would come of wishing ; that 
I had long found out ; and it only made one 
the less inclined to work without white 
feather. So I laid the case before me in a 
little council ; not for loss of time, but only 
that I wanted rest, and to see things truly. 

Then says I to myself, “John Ridd, these 
trees, and pools, and lonesome rocks, and 
setting of the sunlight, are making a grue- 
some coward of thee. Shall I go back to my 
mother so, and be called her fearless boy ?” 


LORNA DOONE. 


33 


Nevertheless, I am free to own that it was 
not any fine sense of shame which settled 
my decision ; for indeed there was nearly as 
much of danger in going back as in going 
on, and perhaps even more of labor, the 
journey being so roundabout. But that 
which saved me from turning back was a 
strange inquisitive desire, very unbecoming 
in a boy of little years ; in a word, I would 
risk a great deal to know what made the 
water come down like that, and what there 
was at the top of it. 

Therefore, seeing hard strife before me, I 
girt up my breeches anew, with each buckle 
one hole tighter, for the sodden straps were 
stretching and giving, and mayhap my legs 
were grown smaller from the coldness of it. 
Then I bestowed my fish around my neck 
more tightly, and not stopping to look much, 
for fear of fear, crawled along over the fork 
of rocks, where the water had scooped the 
stone out, and shunning thus the ledge from 
-whence it rose like the mane of a white 
horse into the broad black pool, softly I let 
my feet into the dip and rush of the torrent. 

And here I had reckoned without my host, 
although (as I thought) so clever; and it 
was much but that I went down into the 
great black pool, and had never been heard 
of more ; and this must have been the end 
of me, except for my trusty loach-fork. For 
the green wave came down like great bot- 
tles upon me, and my legs were gone off in 
a moment, and I had not time to cry out 
with wonder, only to think of my mother 
and Annie, and knock my head very sadly, 
which made it go round so that brains were 
no good, even if I had any. But all in a 
moment, before I knew aught, except that 
I must die out of the way, with a roar of 
water upon me, my fork, praise God, stuck 
fast in the rock, and I was borne up upon it. 
I felt nothing except that here was another 
matter to begin upon ; and it might be worth 
while, or again it might not, to have an- 
other fight for it. But presently the dash of 
flie water upon my face revived me, and my 
mind grew used to the roar of it ; and me- 
seemed I had been worse off than this, when 
first flung into the Lowman. 

Therefore I gathered my legs back slowly, 
as if they were fish to be landed, stopping 
whenever the water flew too strongly off my 
shin-bones, and coming along without stick- 
ing out to let the wave get hold of me. And 
in this manner I won a footing, leaning well 
forward like a draught-horse, and balancing 
on my strength, as it were, with the ashen 
stake set behind me. Then I said to myself, 
“John Ridd, the sooner you get yourself 
out by the way you came, the better it will 
be for you.” But to my great dismay and 
affright, I saw that no choice was left me 
now, except that I must climb somehow up 
that hill of water, or else be washed down 
into the pool and whirl around it till it 
3 


drowned me. For there was no chance of 
fetching back by the way I had gone down 
into it, and farther up was a hedge of rock 
on either side of the water-way, rising a 
hundred yards in height, and for all I could 
tell five hundred, and no place to set a foot 
in. 

Having said the Lord’s Prayer (which was 
all I knew), and made a very bad job of it, 
I grasped the good loach-stick under a knot, 
and steadied me with my left hand, and so 
with a sigh of despair began my course up 
the fearful torrent -way. To me it seemed 
half a mile at least of sliding water above 
me, but in truth it was little more than a 
furlong, as I came to know afterward. It 
would have been a hard ascent even without 
the slippery slime and the force of the riv- 
er over it, and I had scanty hope indeed of 
ever winning the summit. Nevertheless my 
terror left me, now I was face to face with 
it, and had to meet the worst ; and I set my- 
self to do my best with a vigor and sort of 
hardness which did not then surprise me, 
but have done so ever since. 

The water was only six inches deep, or 
from that to nine at the utmost, and all the 
way up I could see my feet looking white in 
the gloom of the hollow, and here and there 
I found resting-place, to hold on by the cliff 
and pant a while. And gradually as I went 
on, a warmth of courage breathed in me, to 
think that perhaps no other had dared to 
try that pass before me, and to wonder what 
mother would say to it. And then came 
thought of my father also, and the pain of 
my feet abated. 

How I went carefully, step by step, keep- 
ing my arms in front of me, and never dar- 
ing to straighten my knees, is more than I 
can tell clearly, or even like now to think 
of, because it makes me dream of it. Only 
I must acknowledge that the greatest dan- 
ger of all was just where I saw no jeopardy, 
but ran up' a patch of black ooze-weed in a 
very boastful manner, being now not far 
from the summit. 

Here I fell very piteously, and was like 
to have broken my knee-cap, and the torrent 
got hold of my other leg while I was indul- 
ging the bruised one. And then a vile knot- 
ting of cramp disabled me, and for a while 
I could only roar, till my mouth was full of 
water, and all of my body was sliding. But 
the fright of that brought me to again, and 
my elbow caught in a rock-hole ; and so I 
managed to start again, with the help of 
more humility. 

Now, being in the most dreadful fright, 
because I was so near the top, and hope was 
beating within me, I labored hard with both 
legs and arms, going like a mill and grunt- 
ing. At last the rush of forked water, where 
first it came over the lips of the fall, drove 
me into the middle, and I stuck a while with 
my toe-balls on the slippery links of the pop- 


34 


LORNA DOONE. 


weed, and the world was green and gliddery, 
and I durst not look behind me. Then I 
made up my mind to die at last ; for so my 
legs would ache no more, and my breath not 
pain my heart so ; only it did seem such a 
pity, after fighting so long, to give in, and 
the light was coming upon me, and again I 
fought toward it ; then suddenly I felt fresh 
air, and fell into it headlong. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A BOY AND A GIRL. 

When I came to myself again, my hands 
were full of young grass and mould, and a 
little girl kneeling at my side was rubbing 
my forehead tenderly with a dock-leaf and 
a handkerchief. 

“ Oh, I am so glad !” she whispered soft- 
ly, as I opened my eyes and looked at her ; 
“ now you will try to be better, won’t you ?” 

I had never heard so sweet a sound as 
came from between her bright red lips, 
while there she knelt and gazed at me ; nei- 
ther had. I ever seen any thing so beautiful 
as the large dark eyes intent upon me, full 
of pity and wonder. And then, my nature 
being slow, and perhaps, for that matter, 
heavy, I wandered with my hazy eyes down 
the black shower of her hair, as to my jaded 
gaze it seemed; and where it fell on the 
turf, among it (like an early star) was the 
first primrose of the season. And since that 
clay, I think of her, through all the rough 
storms of my life, when I see an early prim- 
rose. Perhaps she liked my countenance, 
and indeed I know she did, because she said 
so afterward ; although at the time she was 
too young to know what made her take to 
me. Not that I had any beauty, or ever 
pretended to have any, only a solid healthy 
face, which many girls have laughed at. 

Thereupon I sat upright, with my little 
trident still in one hand, and was much 
afraid to speak to her, being conscious of 
my country -brogue, lest she should cease 
to like me. But she clapped her hands, and 
made a trifling dance around my back, and 
came to me on the other side, as if I were a 
great plaything. 

“What is your name?” she said, as if she 
had every right to ask me ; “ and how did 
you come here, and what are these wet things 
in this great bag ?” 

“ You had better let them alone,” I said ; 
“they are loaches for my mother. But I 
will give you some, if you like.” 

“ Dear me, how much you think of them ! 
Why, they are only fish. But how your feet 
are bleeding ! oh, I must tie them up for you. 
And no shoes nor stockings ! Is your moth- 
er very poor, poor boy ?” 

“No,” I said, beiug vexed at this; “we 
are rich enough to buy all this great mead- 


ow, if we chose ; and here my shoes and stock- 
ings be.” 

“ Why, they are quite as wet as your feet ; 
and I can not bear to see your feet. Oh, 
please to let me manage them ; I will do it 
very softly.” 

“ Oh, I don’t think much of that,” I re- 
plied; “I shall put some goose-grease to 
them. But how you are looking at me ! I 
never saw any one like you before. My 
name is John Ridd. What is your name ?” 

“ Lorna Doone,” she answered, in a low 
voice, as if afraid of it, and hanging her 
head so that I could see only her forehead 
and eyelashes ; “ if you please, my name is 
Lorna Doone ; and I thought you must have 
known it.” 

Then I stood up and touched her hand, 
and tried to make her look at me ; but she 
only turned away the more. Young and 
harmless as she was, her name alone made 
guilt of her. Nevertheless I could not help 
looking at her tenderly, and the more when 
her blushes turned into tears, and her tears 
to long, low sobs. 

“ Don’t cry,” I said, “ whatever you do. I 
am sure you have never done any harm. I , 
will give you all my fish, Lorna, and catch 
some more for mother ; only don’t be angry 
with me.” 

She flung her little soft arms up in the 
passion of her tears, and looked at me so 
piteously, that what did I do but kiss her. 
It seemed to be a very odd thing, when I 
came to think of it, because I hated kissing 
so, as all honest boys must do. But she 
touched my heart with a sudden delight, 
like a cowslip-blossom (although there were 
none to be seen yet) and the sweetest flow- 
ers of spring. 

She gave me no encouragement, as my 
mother in her place w r ould have done ; nay, 
she even wiped her lips (which methought 
was rather rude of her), and drew away, 
and smoothed her dress, as if I had used a 
freedom. Then I felt my cheeks grow burn- 
ing red, and I gazed at my legs and was sor- 
ry. For although she was not at all a proud 
child (at any rate in her countenance), yet 
I knew that she was by birth a thousand 
years in front of me. They might have 
taken and trained me, or (which would be 
more to the purpose) my sisters, until it was 
time for us to die, and then have trained our 
children after us, for many generations ; yet 
never could we have gotten that look upon 
our faces which Lorna Doone had naturally, 
as if she had been born to it. 

Here was I, a yeoman’s boy, a yeoman 
every inch of me, even where I was naked ; 
and there was she, a lady born, and thor- 
oughly aware of it, and dressed by people 
of rank and taste, who took pride in her 
beauty and set it to advantage. For though 
her hair was fallen down by reason of her 
wildness, and some of her frock wa3 touched 


LOENA 

with wet where she had tended me so, be- 
hold her dress was pretty enough for the 
queen of all the angels! The colors were 
bright and rich indeed, and the substance 
very sumptuous, yet simple and free from 
tinsel stuff, and matching most harmonious- 
ly. All from her waist to her neck was 
white, plaited in close like a curtain, and 
the dark soft weeping of her hair, and the 
shadowy light of her eyes (like a wood ray- 
ed through with sunset), made it seem yet 
whiter, as if it were done on purpose. As 
for the rest, she knew what it was a great 
deal better than I did; for I never could 
look far away from her eyes when they 
were opened upon me. 

Now, seeing how I heeded her, and feeling 
that I had kissed her, although she was such 
a little girl, eight years old or thereabouts, 
she turned to the stream in a bashful man- 
ner, and began to watch the water, and rub- 
bed one leg against the other. 

I for my part, being vexed at her behav- 
ior to me, took up all my things to go, and 
made a fuss about it, to let her know I was 
going. But she did not call me back at all, 
as I had made sure she would do ; moreover, 
I knew that to try the descent was almost 
certain death to me, and it looked as dark 
as pitch; and so at the mouth I turned 
round again, and came back to her, and said, 
“ Lorna.” 

“ Oh, I thought you were gone,” she an- 
swered ; “ why did you ever come here ? Do 
you know what they would do to us, if they 
found you here with me ?” 

“ Beat us, I dare say, very hard, or me at 
least. They could never beat you.” 

“No. They would kill us both outright, 
and bury us here by the water ; and the 
water often tells me that I must come to 
that.” 

“ But what should they kill me for ?” 

“ Because you have found the way up 
here, and they never could believe it. Now, 
please to go ; oh please to go. They will kill 
us both in a moment. Yes, I like you very 
much” — for I was teasing her to say it — ■ 
“ very much indeed, and I will call you John 
Eidd, if you like ; only please to go, John. 
And when your feet are well, you know, you 
can come and tell me how they are.” 

“ But I tell you, Lorna, I like you very 
much indeed, nearly as much as Annie, and 
a great deal more than Lizzie. And I nev- 
er saw any one like you ; and I must come 
back again to-morrow, and so must you, to 
see me ; and I will bring you such lots of 
things — there are apples still, and a thrush 
I caught with only one leg broken, and our 
dog has just had puppies — ” 

“ Oh dear ! they won’t let me have a dog. 
There is not a dog in the valley. They say 
they are such noisy things — ” 

“ Only put your hand in mine — what lit- 
tle things they are, Lorna ! — and I will bring 


DOONE. 35 

you the loveliest dog ; I will show you just 
how long he is.” 

“ Hush !” A shout came down the valley ; 
and all my heart was trembling, like water 
after sunset, and Lorna’s face was altered 
from pleasant play to terror. She shrank 
to me, and looked up at me, with such a 
power of weakness, that I at once made up 
my mind to save her or to die with her. A 
tingle went through all my bones, and I. only 
longed for my carbine. The little girl took 
courage from me, and put her cheek quite 
close to mine. 

“Come with me down the water-fall. I 
can carry you easily ; and mother will take 
care of you.” 

“ No, no,” she cried, as I took her up : “I 
will tell you what to do. They are only 
looking for me. You see that hole, that 
hole there ?” 

She pointed to a little niche in the rock 
which verged the meadow, about fifty yards 
away from us. In the fading of the twi- 
light I could just descry it. 

“ Yes, I see it ; but they will see me cross- 
ing the grass to get there.” 

“ Look ! look !” She could hardly speak. 
“ There is a way out from the top of it ; they 
would kill me if I told it. Oh, here they 
come ; I can see them.” 

The little maid turned as white as the 
snow which hung on the rocks above her, 
and she looked at the water and then at me, 
and she cried, “Oh dear! oh dear!” And 
then she began to sob aloud, being so young 
and unready. But I drew her behind the 
withy -bushes, and close? down to the water, 
where it was quiet and shelving deep, ere it 
came to the lip of the chasm. Here they 
could not see either of us from the upper 
valley, aud might have sought a long time 
for us, even when they came quite near, if 
the trees had been clad with their summer 
clothes. Luckily, I had picked up my fish 
and taken my three-pronged fork away. 

Crouching in that hollow nest, as children 
get together in ever so little compass, I saw 
a dozen fierce men come down, on the other 
side of the water, not bearing any fire-arms, 
but looking lax and jovial, as if they were 
come from riding and a dinner taken hun- 
grily. “ Queen, queen !” they were shout- 
ing, here and there, and now and then: 
“ where the pest is our little queen gone ?” 

“ They always call me 1 queen,’ and I am 
to be queen by-and-by,” Lorna whispered to 
me, with her soft cheek on my rough one, 
and her little heart beating against me: 
“ oh, they are crossing by the timber there, 
and then they are sure to see us.” 

“ Stop,” said I ; “ now I see what to do. 
I must get into the water, and you must go 
to sleep.” 

“To be sure, yes, away in the meadow 
there. But how bitter cold it will be for 
you !” 


36 


LORNA DOONE. 


She saw in a moment the way to do it, 
sooner than I could tell her ; and there was 
no time to lose. 

u Now mind you never come again,” she 
whispered over her shoulder, as she crept 
away with a childish twist, hiding her white 
front from me ; u only I shall come sometimes 
— oh, here they are, Madonna !” 

Daring scarce to peep, I crept into the wa- 
ter, and lay down bodily in it, with my head 
between two blocks of stone, and some flood- 
drift combing over me. The dusk was deep- 
ening between the hills, and a white mist lay 
on the river ; but I, being in the channel of 
it, could see every ripple, and twig, and rush, 
and glazing of twilight above it, as bright 
as in a picture ; so that to my ignorance 
there seemed no chance at all but what the 
men must find me. For all this time they 
w r ere shouting, and swearing, and keeping 
such a hullabaloo, that the rocks all round 
the valley rang, and my heart quaked, so 
(what with this and the cold) that the wa- 
ter began to gurgle round me, and to lap 
upon the pebbles. 

Neither, in truth, did I try to stop it, being 
now so desperate, between the fear and the 
wretchedness, till I caught a glimpse of the 
little maid, whose beauty and whose kind- 
liness had made me yearn to be with her. 
And then I knew that for her sake I was 
bound to be brave and hide myself. She 
was lying beneath a rock, thirty or forty 
yards from me, feigning to be fast asleep, 
with her dress spread beautifully, and her 
hair drawn over her. 

Presently one of the great rough men 
came round a corner upon her ; and there he 
stopped and gazed a while at her fairness 
and her innocence. Then he caught her up 
in his arms, and kissed her so that I heard 
him ; and if I had only brought my gun, I 
would have tried to shoot him. 

“ Here our queen is ! Here’s the queen ; 
here’s the captain’s daughter!” he shouted 
to his comrades ; “ fast asleep, by God, and 
hearty ! Now I have first claim to her ; and 
no one else shall touch the child. Back to 
the bottle, all of you !” 

He set her dainty little form upon his 
great square shoulder, and her narrow feet 
in one broad hand ; and so in triumph march- 
ed away, with the purple velvet of her skirt 
ruffling in his long black beard, and the 
silken length of her hair fetched out, like a 
cloud by the wind, behind her. This way 
of her going vexed me so, that I leaped up- 
right in the water, and must have been spied 
by some of them, but for their haste to 
the wine-bottle. Of their little queen they 
took small notice, being in this urgency — al- 
though they had thought to find her drown- 
ed — but trooped away after one another with 
kindly challenge to gambling, so far as I 


could make them out ; and I kept sharp 
watch, I assure you. 

Going up that darkened glen, little Lor* 
na, riding still the largest and most fierce of 
them, turned and put up a hand to me, and 
I put up a hand to her, in the thick of the 
mist and the willows. 

She was gone, my little dear (though tall 
of her age and healthy) ; and when I got 
over my thriftless fright, I longed to have 
more to say to her. Her voice to me was so 
different from all I had ever heard before, 
as might be a sweet silver bell intoned to 
the small chords of a harp. But I had no 
time to think about this, if I hoped to have 
any supper. 

I crept into a bush for warmth, and rubbed 
my shivering legs on bark, and longed for 
mother’s fagot. Then, as daylight sank be- 
low the forget-me-not of stars, with a sor- 
row to be quit, I knew that now must be 
my time to get away, if there were any. 

Therefore, wringing my sodden breeches, 
I managed to crawl from the bank to the 
niche in the cliff which Lorna had shown me. 

Through the dusk I had trouble to see the 
mouth, at even five land-yards of distance ; 
nevertheless I entered well, and held on by 
some dead fern-stems, and did hope that no 
one would shoot me. 

But while I was hugging myself like this, 
with a boyish manner of reasoning, my joy 
was like to have ended in sad grief both to 
myself and my mother, and haply to all hon- 
est folk who shall love to read this history. 
For, hearing a noise in front of me, and like 
a coward not knowing where, but afraid to 
turn round or think of it, I felt myself go- 
ing down some deep passage into a pit of 
darkness. It was no good to catch the sides, 
the whole thing seemed to go with me. 
Then, without knowing how, I was leaning 
over a night of water. 

This water was of black radiance, as are 
certain diamonds, spanned across with vaults 
of rock, and carrying no image, neither show- 
ing marge nor end, but centred (as it might 
be) with a bottomless indrawal. 

With that chill and dread upon me, and 
the sheer rock all around, and the faint light 
heaving wavily on the silence of this gulf, 
I must have lost my wits and gone to the 
bottom, if there were any. 

But suddenly a robin sang (as they will 
do after dark, toward spring) in the brown 
fern and ivy behind me. I took it for our 
little Annie’s voice (for she could call any 
robin), and gathering quick warm comfort, 
sprang up the steep way toward the star- 
light. Climbing back, as the stones glided 
down, I heard the cold greedy wave go lap- 
ping, like a blind black dog, into the dis- 
tance of arches and hollow depths of dark- 
ness. 


LORNA DOONE. 


37 


CHAPTER IX. 

THERE IS NO PLACE LIKE HOME. 

I can assure you, and tell no lie (as John 
Ery always used to say, when telling his 
very largest), that I scrambled back to the 
mouth of that pit as if the evil one had been 
after me. And sorely I repented now of all 
my boyish folly, or madness it might well 
be termed, in venturing, with none to help, 
and nothing to compel me, into that ac- 
cursed valley. Once let me get out, thinks 
I ; and if ever I get in again, without being 
cast in by neck and by crop, I will give our 
new-born donkey leave to set up for my 
school-master. 

How I kept that resolution we shall see 
hereafter. It is enough for me now to tell 
how I escaped from the den that night. 
First I sat down in the little opening which 
Lorna had pointed out to me, and wondered 
whether she had meant, as bitterly occurred 
to me, that I should run down into the pit, 
and be drowned, and give no more trouble. 
But in less than half a minute I was ashamed 
of that idea, and remembered how she was 
vexed to think that even a loach should lose 
his life. And then I said to myself, “ Now 
surely she would value me more than a thou- 
sand loaches ; and what she said must be 
quite true about the way out of this horri- 
ble place.” 

Therefore I began to search with the ut- 
most care and diligence, although my teeth 
were chattering, and all my bones beginning 
to ache with the chilliness and the wetness. 
Before very long the moon appeared, over 
the edge of the mountain, and among the 
trees at the top of it; and then I espied 
rough steps, and rocky, made as if with a 
sledge-hammer, narrow, steep, and far asun- 
der, scooped here and there in the side of 
the entrance, and then round a bulge of 
the cliff, like the marks upon a great brown 
loaf, where a hungry child has picked at it. 
And higher up, where the light of the moon 
shone broader upon the precipice, there 
seemed to be a rude broken track, like the 
shadow of a crooked stick thrown upon a 
house-wall. 

Herein was small encouragement ; and at 
first I was minded to lie down and die ; but 
it seemed to come amiss to me. God has his 
time for all of us ; but he seems to advertise 
us when He does not mean to do it. More- 
over, I saw a movement of lights at the head 
of the valley, as if lanterns were coming af- 
ter me, and the nimbleness given thereon to 
my heels was in front of all meditation. 

Straightway I set foot in the lowest stir- 
rup (as I might almost call it), and clung to 
the rock with my nails, and worked to make 
a jump into the second stirrup. Audi com- 
passed that too, with the aid of my stick ; 
although, to tell you the truth, I was not at 
that time of life so agile as boys of smaller 


frame are, for my size was growing beyond 
my years, and the muscles not keeping time 
with it, and the joints of my bones not close- 
ly hinged, with staring at one another. But 
the third step-hole was the hardest of all, 
and the rock swelled out on me over my 
breast, and there seemed to be no attempt- 
ing it, until I espied a good stout rope hang- 
ing in a groove of shadow, and just managed 
to reach the end of it. 

How I clomb up, and across the clearing, 
and found my way home through the Bag- 
worthy forest, is more than I can remember 
now, for I took all the rest of it then as a 
dream, by reason of perfect weariness. And 
indeed it was quite beyond my hopes to tell 
so much as I have told ; for at first begin- 
ning to set it down, it was all like a mist 
before me. Nevertheless, some parts grew 
clearer, as one by one I remembered them, 
having taken a little soft cordial, because 
the memory frightens me. 

For the toil of the water, and danger of 
laboring up the long cascade or rapids, and 
then the surprise of the fair young maid, 
and terror of the murderers, and despera- 
tion of getting away — all these are much 
to me even now, when I am a stout church- 
warden, and sit by the side of my fire, after 
going through many far worse adventures, 
which I will tell, God willing. Only the 
labor of writing is such (especially so as to 
construe and challenge a reader on parts of 
speech, and hope to be even with him) ; that 
by this pipe which I hold in my hand I ever 
expect to be beaten, as in the days when 
old Doctor Twiggs, if I made a bad stroke in 
my exercise, shouted aloud with a sour joy, 
“John Ridd, sirrah, down with your small- 
clothes !” 

Let that be as it may, I deserved a good 
beating that night, after making such a 
fool of myself, and grinding good fustian to 
pieces. But when I got home, all the sup- 
per was in, and the men sitting at the white 
table, and mother and Annie and Lizzie near 
by, all eager, and offering to begin (except, 
indeed, my mother, who was looking out 
of the door-way), and by the fire was Betty 
Muxworthy, scolding, and cooking, and tast- 
ing her work, all in a breath, as a man would 
say. I looked through the door from the 
dark by the wood-stack, and was half of a 
mind to stay out like a dog, for fear of the 
rating and reckoning ; but the way my dear 
mother was looking about, and the brown- 
ing of the sausages, got the better of me. 

But nobody could get out of me where I 
had been all the day and evening ; although 
they worried me never so much, and longed 
to shake me to pieces, especially Betty Mux- 
worthy, who never could learn to let well 
alone. Not that they made me tell any lies, 
although it would have served them right 
almost for intruding on other people’s busi- 
ness; but that I just held my tongue, and 


38 


LORNA DOONE. 


ate my supper rarely, and let them try their 
taunts and jibes, and drove them almost 
wild after supper, by smiling exceeding 
knowingly. And indeed I could have told 
them things, as I hiuted once or twice ; and 
then poor Betty and our little Lizzie were 
so mad with eagerness, that between them 
I went into the lire, being thoroughly over- 
come with laughter and my own importance. 

Now what the working of my mind was 
(if, indeed, it worked at all, and did not 
rather follow suit of body) it is not in my 
power to say; only that the result of my 
adventure in the Doone Glen was to make 
me dream a good deal of nights, which I 
had never done much before, and to drive 
me, with tenfold zeal and purpose, to the 
practice of bullet-shooting. Not that I ever 
expected to shoot the Doone family, one by 
one, or even desired to do so, for my nature 
is not revengeful; but that it seemed to 
be somehow my business to understand the 
gun, as a thing I must be at home with. 

I could hit the barn door now capitally 
well with the Spanish matchlock, and even 
with John Fry’s blunderbuss, at ten good 
laud-yards distance, without any rest for my 
fusil. And what was very wrong of me, 
though I did not see it then, I kept John 
Fry there, to praise my shots, from dinner- 
time often until the gray dusk, while he all 
the time should have been at work spring- 
plowing upon the farm. And, for that mat- 
ter, so should I have been, or at any rate 
driving the horses; but John was by no 
means loath to be there, instead of holding 
the plow-tail. And indeed one of our old 
sayings is — 

“For pleasure’s sake I would liefer wet, 

Than ha’ ten lumps of gold for each one of my 
sweat.” 

And again, which is not a bad proverb, though 
unthrifty and unlike a Scotsman’s — 

“God makes the wheat grow greener, 

While farmer be at his dinner.” 

And no Devonshire man, or Somerset either 
(and I belong to both of them), ever thinks 
of working harder than God likes to see 
him. 

Nevertheless, I workedhardatthegun, and 
by the time that I had sent all the church- 
roof gutters, so far as I honestly could cut 
them, through the red pine door, I began to 
long for a better tool that would make less 
noise and throw straighter. But the sheep- 
shearing came, and the hay-season next, aud 
then the harvest of small corn, and the dig- 
ging of the root called “batata” (a new but 
good thing in our neighborhood, which our 
folk have made into “taties”), and then the 
sweating of the apples, and the turning of 
the cider-press, and the stacking of the fire- 
wood, and netting of the woodcocks, and the 
springles to be minded in the garden and by 
the hedge-rows, where blackbirds hop to the 


mole -hills in the white October mornings, 
and gray birds come to look for snails at the 
time when the sun is rising. 

It is wonderful how time runs away, 
when all these things and a great many 
others come in to load him down the hill 
and prevent him from stopping to look 
about. And I for my part can never con- 
ceive how people who live in towns and 
cities, where neither lambs nor birds are 
(except in some shop windows), nor grow- 
ing corn, nor meadow-grass, nor even so 
much as a stick to cut or a stile to climb 
and sit down upon — how these poor folk 
get through their lives without being utter- 
ly weary of them, and dying from pure in- 
dolence, is a thing God only knows, if his 
mercy allows him to think of it. 

How the year went by I know not, only 
that I was abroad all day, shooting, or fish- 
ing, or minding the farm, or riding after 
some stray beast, or away by the sea -side 
below Glen-thorne, wondering at the great 
waters, and resolving to go for a sailor. For 
in those days I had a firm belief, as many 
other strong boys have, of being born for a 
seaman. And indeed I had been in a boat 
nearly twice; but the second time mother 
found it out, and came and drew me back 
again ; and after that she cried so badly, 
that I was forced to give my word to her to 
go no more without telling her. 

But Betty Muxworthy spoke her mind 
quite in a different way about it, the while 
she was wringing my hosen, and clattering 
to the drying-horse. 

“ Zailor, ees fai ! ay and zarve un raight. 
Her can’t kape out o’ the watter here, whur 
a’ must goo vor to vaind un, zame as a gurt 
to-ad squalloping, and mux up till I be wore 
out, I be, wi’ the very saight of ’s braiches. 
How will un ever baide aboard zhip, wi’ the 
watter zinging out under un, and cornin’ up 
splash when the wind blow. Latt un goo, 
missus, latt un goo, zay I for wan, and old 
Davy wash his clouts for un.” 

And this discourse of Betty’s tended more 
than my mother’s prayers, I fear, to keep 
me from going. For I hated Betty in those 
days, as children always hate a cross serv- 
ant, and often get fond of a false one. But 
Betty, like many active women, was false by 
her crossness only; thinking it just for the 
moment perhaps, aud rushing away with a 
bucket ; ready to stick to it, like a clench- 
ed nail, if beaten the wrong way with argu- 
ment ; but melting over it, if yon left her, 
as stinging soap, left alone in a basin, spreads 
all abroad without bubbling. 

But all this is beyond the children, and 
beyond me too for that matter, even now in 
ripe experience ; for I never did know what 
women mean, and never shall except when 
they tell me, if that be in their power. Now 
let that question pass. For although I am 
now in a place of some authority, I have ob- 


LORNA DOONE. 


39 


served that no one ever listens to me when 
I attempt to lay down the law, but all are 
waiting with open ears until I do enforce it. 
And so methiuks he who reads a history 
cares not much for the wisdom or folly of 
the writer (knowing well that the former is 
far less than his own, and the latter vastly 
greater), but hurries to know what the peo- 
ple did, and how they got on about it. And 
this I can tell, if any one can, having been 
myself in the thick of it. 

The fright I had taken that night in Glen 
Doone satisfied me for a long time there- 
after ; and I took good care not to venture 
even in the fields and woods of the outer 
farm, without John Fry for company. John 
was greatly surprised and pleased at the 
value I now set upon him ; until, what be- 
twixt the desire to vaunt and the longing 
to talk things over, I gradually laid bare 
to him nearly all that had befallen me — ex- 
cept, indeed, about Lorna, whom a sort of 
shame kept me from mentioning. Not that 
I did not think of her, and wish very often 
to see her again ; but of course I was only a 
boy as yet, and therefore inclined to despise 
young girls, as being unable to do any thing, 
and only meant to listen to orders. And 
when I got along with the other boys, that 
was how we always spoke of them, if we 
deigned to speak at all, as beings of a lower 
order, only good enough to run errands for 
us, and to nurse boy-babies. 

And yet my sister Annie was in truth a 
great deal more to me than all the boys of 
the parish, and of Brendon and Countisbury 
put together ; although at the time I never 
dreamed it, and would have laughed if told 
so. Annie was of a pleasing face, and very 
gentle manner, almost like a lady, some peo- 
ple said; but without any airs whatever, 
only trying to give satisfaction. And if 
she failed, she would go and weep without 
letting any one know it, believing the fault 
to be all her own, when mostly it was of 
others. But if she succeeded in pleasing 
you, it was beautiful to see her smile, and 
stroke her soft chin in a way of her own, 
which she always used when takiug note 
how to do the right thing again for you. 
And then her cheeks had a bright clear 
pink, and her eyes were as blue as the sky 
in spring, and she stood as upright as a 
young apple-tree, and no one could help but 
smile at her, and pat her brown curls ap- 
provingly ; whereupon she always courte- 
sied. For she never tried to look away 
when honest people gazed at her ; and even 
in the court-yard she would come and help 
to take your saddle, and tell (without your 
asking her) what there was for dinner. 

And afterward she grew up to be a very 
comely maiden, tall, and with a well-built 
neck, and very fair white shoulders, under a 
bright cloud of curling hair. Alas! poor 
Annie, like most of the gentle maidens — but 


tush, I am not come to that yet ; and for the 
present she seemed to me little to look at. 
after the beauty of Lorna Doone. 


CHAPTER X. 

A BRAVE RESCUE AND A ROUGH RIDE. 

It happened upon a November evening 
(when I was about fifteen years old, and out- 
growing my strength very rapidly, my sister 
Annie being turned thirteen, and a deal of 
rain having fallen, and all the troughs in the 
yard being flooded, and the bark from the 
wood -ricks washed down the gutters, and 
even our water-shoot going brown) that the 
ducks in the court made a terrible quacking, 
instead of marching off to their pen, one be- 
hind another. Thereupon Annie and I ran 
out to see what might be the sense of it. 
There were thirteen ducks, and ten lily-white 
(as the fashion then of ducks was), not I mean 
twenty-three in all, but ten white and three 
brown-striped ones ; and without being nice 
about their color, they all quacked very mov- 
ingly. They pushed their gold-colored bills 
here and there (yet dirty, as gold is apt to 
be), and they jumped on the triangles of their 
feet, and sounded out of their nostrils ; and 
some of the overexcited ones ran along low 
on the ground, quacking grievously, with 
their bills snapping and bending, and the 
roof of their mouths exhibited. 

Annie began to cry “ dilly, dilly, einy, einy, 
ducksey,” according to the burden of a tune 
they seem to have accepted as the national 
duck’s anthem ; but instead of being soothed 
by it, they only quacked three times as hard, 
and ran round till we were giddy. And then 
they shook their tails all together, and look- 
ed grave, and went round and round again. 
Now I am uncommonly fond of ducks, wheth- 
er roystering, roosting, or roasted ; and it is 
a fine sight to behold them walk, poddling 
one after other, with their toes out, like sol- 
diers drilling, and their little eyes cocked all 
ways at once, and the way that they dib with 
their bills, and dabble, and throw up their 
heads and enjoy something, and then tell the 
others about it. Therefore I knew at once, 
by the way they were carrying on, that there 
must be something or other gone wholly 
amiss in the duck-world. Sister Annie per- 
ceived it too, but with a greater quickness ; 
for she counted them like a good duck-wife, 
and could only tell thirteen of them, when 
she knew there ought to be fourteen. 

And so we began to search about, and the 
ducks ran to lead us aright, having come that 
far to fetch us ; and when we got down to 
the foot of the court-yard where the two great 
ash-trees stand by the side of the little wa- 
ter, we found good reason for the urgence 
and melancholy of the duck-birds. Lo ! the 
old white drake, the father of all, a bird of 


40 


LORNA DOONE. 


high manners and chivalry, always the last 
to help himself from the pan of barley-meal, 
and the first to show fight to a dog or cock 
intruding upon his family, this fine fellow, 
and a pillar of the state, was now in a sad 
predicament, yet quacking very stoutly. For 
the brook, wherewith he had been familiar 
from his callow childhood, and wherein he 
was wont to quest for water-newts, and tad- 
poles, and caddice-worms, and other game, 
this brook, which aflorded him very often 
scanty space to dabble in, and sometimes 
starved the cresses, was now coming down in 
a great brown flood, as if the banks never be- 
longed to it. The foaming of it, and the noise, 
and the cresting of the corners, and the up and 
down, like a wave of the sea, were enough 
to frighten any duck, though bred upon 
stormy waters, which our ducks never had 
been. 

There is always a hurdle six feet long and 
four and a half in depth, swung by a chain 
at either end from an oak laid across the 
channel. And the use of this hurdle is to 
keep our kine at milking-time from straying 
away there drinking (for in truth they are 
very dainty) and to fence strange cattle, or 
Farmer Snowe’s horses, from coming along 
the bed of the brook unknown, to steal our 
substance. But now this hurdle, which hung 
in the summer a foot above the trickle, would 
have been dipped more than two feet deep 
but for the power against it. For the tor- 
rent came down so vehemently that the 
chains at full stretch were creaking, and the 
hurdle buffeted almost flat, and thatched (so 
to say) with the drift-stuff, was going see- 
saw with a sulky splash on the dirty red 
comb of the waters. But saddest to see was 
between two bars, where a fog was of rushes, 
and flood- wood, and wild-celery haulm, and 
dead crow’s-foot, who but our venerable mal 
lard jammed in by the joint of his shoulder, 
speaking aloud as he rose and fell, with his 
top-knot full of water, unable to comprehend 
it, with his tail washed far away from him, 
but often compelled to be silent, being duck- 
ed very harshly against his will by the chok- 
ing fall-to of the hurdle. 

For a moment I could not help laughing, 
because, being borne up high and dry by a 
tumult of 'the torrent, he gave me a look 
from his one little eye (having lost one in 
fight with a turkey-cock), a gaze of appeal- 
ing sorrow, and then a loud quack to second 
it. But the quack came out of time, I sup- 
pose, for his throat got filled with water, as 
the hurdle carried him back again. And 
then there was scarcely the screw of his tail 
to be seen until he swung up again, and left 
small doubt, by the way he sputtered, and 
failed to quack, and hung down his poor 
crest, but what he must drown in another 
minute, and frogs triumph over his body. 

Annie was crying and wringing her hands, 
and I was about to rush into the water, al- 


though I liked not the look of it, but hoped 
to hold on by the hurdle, when a man on 
horseback came suddenly round the corner 
of the great ash-hedge on the other side of 
the stream, and his horse’s feet were in the 
water. 

“ Ho, there,” he cried ; “ get thee back, 
boy. The flood will carry thee down like 
a straw. I will do it for thee, and no trou- 
ble.” 

With that he leaned forward, and spoke 
to his mare — she was just of the tint of a 
strawberry, a young thing, very beautiful — - 
and she arched up her neck, as misliking 
the job ; yet, trusting him, would attempt 
it. She entered the flood, with her dainty 
fore-legs sloped farther and farther in front 
of her, and her delicate ears pricked for- 
ward, and the size of her great eyes increas- 
ing ; but he kept her straight in the turbid 
rush, by the pressure of his knee on her. 
Then she looked back, and wondered at 
him, as the force of the torrent grew strong- 
er, but he bade her go on ; and on she went, 
and it foamed up over her shoulders ; and 
she tossed up her lip and scorned it, for now 
her courage was waking. Then, as the rush 
of it swept her away, and she struck with 
her fore - feet down the stream, he leaned 
from his saddle in a manner which I never 
could have thought possible, and caught up 
old Tom with his left hand, and set him be- 
tween his holsters, and smiled at his faint 
quack of gratitude. In a moment all three 
were carried down stream, and the rider lay 
flat on his horse, and tossed the hurdle clear 
from him, and made for the bend of smooth 
water. 

They landed, some thirty or forty yards 
lower, in the midst of our kitchen-garden, 
where the winter-cabbage was ; but though 
Annie and I crept in through the hedge, 
and were full of our thanks and admiring 
him, he would answer ns never a word un- 
til he had spoken in full to the mare, as if 
explaining the whole to her. 

“ Sweetheart, I know thou couldst have 
leaped it,” he said, as he patted her cheek, 
being on the ground by this time, and she 
was nudging up to him, with the water pat- 
tering off from her ; “ but I had good reason,. 
Winnie dear, for making thee go through it.” 

She answered him kindly with her soft 
eyes, and sniffed at him very lovingly, and 
they understood one another. Then he 
took from his waistcoat two pepper-corns, 
and made the old drake swallow them, and 
tried him softly upon his legs, where the 
leading gap in the hedge was. Old Tom 
stood up quite bravely, and clapped his 
wings, and shook off the wet from his tail- 
feathers; and then away into the court- 
yard, and his family gathered around him, 
and they all made a noise in their throats, 
and stood up, and put their bills together, 
to thank God for this great deliverance. 


LORNA DOONE. 


41 


Having taken all this trouble, and watch- 
ed the end of that adventure, the gentle- 
man turned round to us with a pleasant 
smile on his face, as if he were lightly 
amused with himself 5 and we came up and 
looked at him. He was rather short, about 
John Fry’s height, or may be a little taller, 
but very strongly built and springy, as his 
gait at every step showed plainly, although 
his legs were bowed with much riding, and 
he looked as if he lived on horseback. To a 
boy like me he seemed very old, being over 
twenty, and well - found in beard ; but he 
was not more than four-and-twenty, fresh 
and ruddy - looking, with a short nose and 
keen blue eyes, and a merry, waggish jerk 
about him, as if the world were not in ear- 
nest. Yet he had a sharp, stern way, like 
the crack of a pistol, if any thing misliked 
him ; and we knew (for children see such 
things) that it was safer to tickle than buf- 
fet him. 

“Well, young uns, what be gaping at?” 
He gave pretty Annie a chuck on the chin, 
and took me all in without winking. 

“ Your mare,” said I, standing stoutly up, 
being a tall boy now ; “ I never saw such 
a beauty, sir. Will you let me have a ride 
of her ?” 

“ Think thou couldst ride her, lad ? 
She will have no burden but mine Thou 
couldst never ride her. Tut! I would be 
loath to kill thee.” 

“Ride her!” I cried, with the bravest 
scorn, for she looked so kind and gentle ; 
“ there never was horse upon Exmoor foal- 
ed but I could tackle in half an hour. Only 
I never ride upon saddle. Take them leath- 
ers off bf her.” 

He looked at me with a dry little whis- 
tle, and thrust his hands into his breeches- 
pockets, and so grinned that I could not 
stand it. And Annie laid hold of me in 
such a way that I was almost mad with 
her. And he laughed, and approved her for- 
doing so. And the worst of all was — he 
said nothing. 

“Get away, Annie, will you? Do you 
think I’m a fool, good sir ? Only trust me 
with her, and I will not override her.” 

“ For that I will go bail, my son. She is 
liker to override thee. But the ground is 
soft to fall upon, after all this rain. Now 
come out into the yard, young man, for the 
sake of your mother’s cabbages. And the 
mellow straw bed will be softer for thee, 
since pride must have its fall. I am thy 
mother’s cousin, boy, and am going up to 
house. Tom Faggus is my name, as every 
body knows, and this is my young mare, 
Winnie.” 

What a fool I must have been not to know 
it at once ! Tom Faggus, the great high- 
wayman, and his young blood -mare, the 
strawberry ! Already her Rime was noised 
abroad, nearly as much as her master’s, and 


my longing to ride her grew tenfold, but 
fear came at the back of it. Not that I had 
the smallest fear of what the mare could do 
to me, by fair play and horse-trickery, but 
that the glory of sitting upon her seemed to 
be too great for me ; especially as there were 
rumors abroad that she was not a mare, after 
all, but a witch. However, she looked like 
a filly all over, and wonderfully beautiful 
with her supple stride, and soft slope of 
shoulder, and glossy coat beaded with wa- 
ter, and prominent eyes full of docile fire. 
Whether this came from her Eastern blood 
of the Arabs newly imported, and whether 
the cream-color, mixed with our bay, led to 
that bright strawberry tint, is certainly 
more than I can decide, being chiefly ac- 
quaint with farm-horses. And these come 
of any color and form ; you never can count 
what they will be, and are lucky to get four 
legs to them. 

Mr. Faggus gave his mare a wink, and she 
walked demurely after him, a bright young 
thing, flowing over with life, yet dropping 
her soul to a higher one, and led by love to 
any thing, as the manner is of females, when 
they know what is the best for them. Then 
Winnie trod lightly upon the straw, because 
it had soft muck under it, and her delicate 
feet came back again. 

“ Up for it still, boy, be ye ?” Tom Fag- 
gus stopped, and the mare stopped there; 
and they looked at me provokingly. 

“ Is she able to leap, sir ? There is good 
take-off on this side of the brook.”- 

Mr Faggus laughed very quietly, turning 
round to Winnie so that she might enter into 
it. And she, for her part, seemed to know 
exactly where the fun lay. 

“Good tumble -off, you mean, my boy. 
Well there can be small harm to thee. I am 
akin to thy family, and know the substance 
of their skulls.” 

“ Let me get up,” said I, waxing Wroth, 
for reasons I can not tell you, because they 
are too manifold ; “ take off your saddle-bag 
things. I will try not to squeeze her ribs in, 
unless she plays nonsense with me.” 

Then Mr. Faggus was up on his mettle, 
at this proud speech of mine ; and J ohn Fry 
was running up all the while, and Bill 
Dadds, and half a dozen. Tom Faggus gave 
one glance around, and then dropped all re- 
gard for me. The high repute of his mare 
was at stake, and what was my life compared 
to it? Through my defiance, and stupid 
ways, hero was I in a duello, and my legs 
not come to their strength yet, and njy arms 
as limp as a herring. 

Something of this occurred to him, even 
in his wrath with me, for he spoke very soft- 
ly to the filly, who now could scarce subdue 
herself; but she drew in her nostrils, and 
breathed to his breath, and did all she could 
to answer him. 

“Not too hard, my dear,” he said; “let 


42 


LORNA DOONE. 


him gently down on the mixen. That will 
be quite enough.” Then he turned the sad- 
dle off, and I was up in a moment. She be- 
gan at first so easily, and pricked her ears so 
lovingly, and minced about as if pleased to 
find so light a weight upon her, that I 
thought she knew I could ride a little, and 
feared to show any capers. “Gee wugg, 
Polly !” cried I, for all the men were now 
looking on, being then at the leaving-off 
time; “gee wugg, Polly, and show what thou 
be’est made of.” With that I plugged my 
heels into her, and Billy Dadds flung his hat 
up. 

Nevertheless, she outraged not, though her 
eyes were frightening Annie, and John Fry 
tock a pick to keep him safe; but she curb- 
ed to and fro with her strong fore-arms ris- 
ing like springs ingathered, waiting and 
quivering grievously, and beginning to sweat 
about it. Then her master gave a shrill 
clear whistle, when her ears were bent to- 
ward him, and I felt her form beneath me 
gathering up like whalebone, and her hind- 
legs coming under her, and I knew that I 
was in for it. 

First she reared upright in the air, and 
struck me full on the uose with her comb, 
till I bled worse than Robin Suell made me ; 
and then down with her fore-feet deep in the 
straw, and her hiud-feet going to heaven. 
Finding me stick to her still like wax, for 
my mettle was up as hers was, away she flew 
with me swifter than ever I went before, or 
since, I trow. She drove full-head at the cob- 
wall — “Oh, Jack, slip off!” screamed Annie 
— then she turned like light, when I thought 
to crush her, and ground my left knee against 
it. “ Mux me !” I cried, for my breeches were 
broken, and short words went the farthest 
— “if you kill me, you shall die with me.” 
Then she took the court-yard gate at a leap, 
knocking my words between my teeth, and 
then right over a quickset hedge, as if the 
sky were a breath to her ; and away for the 
water-meadows, while I lay on her neck like 
a child at the breast, and wished I had nev- 
er been born. Straight away all in the front 
of the wind, and scattering clouds around 
her, all I knew of the speed we made was 
the frightful flash of her shoulders, and her 
mane like trees in a tempest. I felt the 
earth under us rushing away, and the air left 
far behind us, and my breath came and went, 
and I prayed to God, and was sorry to be so 
late of it. 

All the long swift while, without power 
of thought, I clung to her crest and shoul- 
ders, and dug my nails into her creases, and 
my toes into her flank part, and was proud 
of holding on so long, though sure of being 
beaten. Then in her fury at feeling me still, 
she rushed at another device for it, and leap- 
ed the wide water-trough sideways across, to 
and fro, till no breath was left in me. The 
hazel-boughs took me too hard in the face. 


and the tall dog-briers got hold of me, and 
the ache of my back was like crimping a 
fish ; till I longed to give it up, thoroughly 
beaten, and lie there and die in the cresses. 
Bnt there came a shrill whistle from up the 
home hill, where the people had hurried to 
watch us ; and the mare stopped as if with 
a bullet ; then set off for home with the speed 
of a swallow, and going as smoothly and si- 
lently. I never had dreamed of such deli- 
cate motion, fluent, and graceful, and ambi- 
ent, soft as the breeze flitting over the flow- 
ers, but swift as the summer lightning. I sat 
up again, but my strength was all spent, and 
no time left to recover it ; and though she 
rose at our gate like a bird, I tumbled off 
into the mixen. 

/ 


CHAPTER XI. 

TOM DESERVES HIS SUPPER. 

“ Well done, lad,” Mr. Faggus said, good- 
naturedly ; for all were now gathered round 
me, as I rose from the ground, somewhat tot- 
tering, and miry, and crest-fallen, but other- 
wise none the worse (having fallen upon my 
head, which is of uncommon substance) ; nev- 
ertheless John Fry was laughing, so that I 
longed to clout his ears for him ; “ not at all 
bad work, my boy , we may teach you to ride 
by-and-by, I see ; I thought not to see you 
stick on so long — ” 

* I should have stuck on much longer, sir, 
if her sides had not been wet. She was so 
slippery — ” 

“ Boy, thou art right. She hath given 
many the slip. Ha, ha! Vex not, Jack, that 
I laugh at thee. She is like a sweetheart 
to me, and better than any of them be. It 
would have gone to my heart if thou hadst 
conquered. None but I can ride my Winnie 
mare.” 

“ Foul shame to thee then, Tom Faggus,” 
cried mother, coming up suddenly, and speak- 
ing so that all were amazed, having never 
seen her wrathful, “ to put my boy, my boy, 
across her, as if his life were no more than 
thine ! The only son of his father, an hon- 
est man, and a quiet man ; not a roysteriug, 
drunken robber! A man would have taken 
thy mad horse and thee, and flung them both 
into horse-pond — ay, and what’s more, I’ll 
have it done now, if a hair of his head is in- 
jured. Oh, my boy, my boy ! What could 
I do without thee? Put up the other arm, 
Jolmnv.” All the time mother was scolding 
so, she was feeling me and wiping me ; while 
Faggus tried to look greatly ashamed, having 
sense of the ways of women. 

“Only look at his jacket, mother !” cried. 
Annie; “and a shilling’s worth gone from 
his small-clothes 1” 

“ What care I for his clothes, thou goose ? 
Take that, and heed thine own a bit.” And 


LORNA DOONE. 


43 


mother gave Annie a slap which sent her 
swinging up against Mr. Faggus, and he 
caught her, and kissed and protected her ; 
and she looked at him very nicely, with great 
tears in her soft blue eyes. “ Oh, fie upon 
thee, fie upon thee !” cried mother (being yet 
more vexed with him, because she had beat- 
en Annie) ; “ after all we have done for thee, 
and saved thy worthless neck — and to try to 
kill my son for me ! Never more shall horse 
of thine enter stable here, since these be thy 
returns to me. Small thanks to you, John' 
Fry, I say, and you Dadds, and you Jam Slo- 
comb, and all the rest of your coward lot ; 
much you care for your master’s son ! Afraid 
of that ugly beast yourselves, and you put a 
boy just breeched upon him !” 

“ Wull, missus, what could us do ?” began 
John; “Jan wudd goo, now wudd’t her, 
Jem ? And how was us — ” 

“ Jan, indeed ! Master John, if you please, 
to a lad of his years and stature. And now, 
Tom Faggus, be off, if you please, and think 
yourself lucky to go so; and if ever that 
horse comes into our yard, I’ll hamstring him 
myself, if none of my cowards dare do it.” 

Every body looked at mother, to hear her 
talk like that, knowing how quiet she was 
day by day, aud how pleasant to be cheated. 
And the men began to shoulder their shov- 
els, both so as to be away from her, and to 
go and tell their wives of it. Winnie, too, 
was looking at her, being pointed at so 
much, and wondering if she had done amiss. 
And then she came to me, and trembled, and 
stooped her head, and asked my pardon, if 
she had been too proud with me. 

“Winnie shall stop here to-night,” said I, 
for Tom Faggus still said never a word all 
the while, but began to buckle his things 
on ; for he knew that women are to be met 
with wool, as the cannon-balls were at the 
siege of Tiverton Castle; “mother, I tell you 
Winnie shall stop ; else I will go away with 
her. I never knew what it was, till now, to 
ride a horse worth riding.” 

“ Young man,” said Tom Faggus, still pre- 
paring sternly to depart, “ you know more 
about a horse than any man on Exmoor. 
Your mother may well be proud of you, but 
she need have had no fear. As if I, Tom 
Faggus, your father’s cousin — and the only 
thing I am proud of — would ever have 
let you mount my mare, which dukes and 
princes have vainly sought, except for the 
courage in your eyes, and the look of your 
father about you. I knew you could ride 
when I saw you, and rarely you have con- 
quered. But women don’t understand us. 
Good-bye, John ; I am proud of you, and I 
hoped to have done you pleasure. And in- 
deed I came full of some courtly tales, that 
would have made your hair stand up. But 
though not a crust I have tasted since this 
time yesterday, having given my meat to a 
widow, I will go and starve on the moor, far 


sooner than eat the best supper that ever 
was cooked in a place that has forgotten 
me.” With that he fetched a heavy sigh, 
as if it had been for my father ; and feebly 
got upon Winnie’s back, and she came to 
say farewell to me. He lifted his hat to my 
mother with a glance of sorrow, but never 
a word ; and to me he said, “ Open the gate, 
Cousin John, if you please. You have beat- 
en her so, that she can not leap it, poor 
thing.” 

But before he was truly gone out of our 
yard, my mother came softly after him, with 
her afternoon apron across her eyes, and one 
hand ready to offer him. Nevertheless, he 
made as if he had not seen her, though he 
let his horse go slowly. 

“ Stop, Cousin Tom,” my mother said, “ a 
word with you before you go.” 

“Why, bless my heart!” Tom Faggus 
cried, with the form of his countenance so 
changed, that I verily thought another man 
must have leaped into his clothes — “do I 
see my Cousin Sarah ? I thought every one 
was ashamed of me, and afraid to offer me 
shelter, since I lost my best cousin, John 
Ridd. ‘ Come here,’ he used to say, ‘ Tom, 
come here, when you are worried, and my 
wife shall take good care of you.’ ‘ Yes, 
dear John,’ I used to answer, ‘ I know she 
promised my mother so; but people have 
taken to think against me, aud so might 
Cousin Sarah.’ Ah, he was a mau, a man ! 
If you only heard how he answered me. 
But let that go, I am nothing now since the 
day I lost Cousin Ridd.” And with that he 
began to push on again ; but mother would 
not have it so. 

“ Oh, Tom, that was a loss, indeed. Aud I 
am nothing either. And you should try to 
allow for me ; though I never found any one 
that did.” And mother began to cry, though 
father had been dead so long ; and I looked 
on with a stupid surprise, having stopped 
from crying long ago. 

“ I can tell you one that will,” cried Tom, 
jumping off Winnie in a trice, and looking 
kindly at mother; “I can allow for you, 
Cousin Sarah, in every thing but one. I 
am in some ways a bad man myself; but I 
know the value of a good one ; and if you 
gave me orders, by God — ” And he shook 
his fists toward Bag worthy Wood, just heav- 
ing up black in the sundown. 

“ Hush, Tom, hush, for God’s sake !” And 
mother meant me, without pointing at me ; 
at least I thought she did. For she ever had 
weaned me from thoughts of revenge, and 
even from longings for judgment. “God 
knows best, boy,” she used to say, “ let us 
wait his time, without wishing it.” And 
so, to tell the truth, I did ; partly through 
her teaching, and partly through my own 
mild temper, and my knowledge that father, 
after all, was killed because he had thrashed 
them. 


44 


LORNA DOONE. 


V 

“ Good - night, Cousin Sarah ; good - night, 
Cousin Jack,” cried Tom, taking to the mare 
again ; “ many a mile I have to ride, and not 
a bit inside of me. No food or shelter this 
side of Exeford, and the night will be black 
as pitch, I trow. But it serves me right for 
indulging the lad, being taken with his 
looks so.” 

“ Cousin Tom,” said mother, and trying to 
get so that Annie and I could not hear her ; 
“ it would be a sad and unkinlike thing for 
you to despise our dwelling-house. We can 
not entertain you as the lordly inns on the 
road do, and we have small change of vict- 
uals. But the men will go home, being 
Saturday ; and so you will have the fireside 
all to yourself and the children. There are 
some few collops of red deer’s flesh, and a 
ham just down from the chimney, and some 
dried salmon from Lynmouth weir, and cold 
roast-pig, and some oysters. And if none of 
those be to your liking, we could roast two 
woodcocks in half an hour, and Annie would 
make the toast for them. And the good folk 
made some mistake last week, going up the 
country, and left a keg of old Holland cor- 
dial in the coving of the wood-rick, having 
borrowed our Smiler, without asking leave. 
I feiir there is something unrighteous about 
it. But what can a poor widow do ? John 
Fry would have taken it, but for our Jack. 
Our Jack was a little too sharp for him.” 

“ Ay, that I was; John Fry had got it, 
like a billet under his apron, going away in 
the gray of the morning, as if to kindle his 
fire-place. “Why, John,” I said, “what a 
heavy log! Let me have one end of it.” 
“Thank’e, Jan, no need of thiccy.” he an- 
swered, turning his back to me; “waife 
wanted a log as will last all day, to kape 
the crock a zimmerin.” And he banged his 
gate upon my heels to make me stop and 
rub them. “ Why, John,” said I, “you’m 
got a log with round holes in the end of it. 
Who has been cutting gun- wads ? Just lift 
your apron, or I will.” 

But to return to Tom Faggus — he stopped 
to sup that night with us, and took a little 
of every thing ; a few oysters first, and then 
dried salmon, and then ham and eggs, done 
in small curled rashers, and then a few col- 
lops of venison toasted, and next to that a 
little cold roast-pig, and a woodcock on toast 
to finish with, before the Scheidam and hot 
water. And having changed his wet things 
first, he seemed to be in fair appetite, and 
praised Annie’s cooking mightily, with a 
kind of noise like a smack of his lips, and a 
rubbing of his hands together, whenever he 
could spare them. 

He had gotten John Fry’s best small- 
clothes on, for he said he was not good 
enough to go into my father’s (which moth- 
er kept to look at), nor man enough to fill 
them. And in truth my mother was very 
glad that he refused when I offered them. 


But John was overproud to have it in his- 
power to say that such a famous man had 
ever dwelt in any clothes of his; and af- 
terward he made show of them. For Mr. 
Faggus’s glory, then, though not so great as. 
now it is, was spreading very fast indeed all 
about our neighborhood, and even as far as 
Bridgewater. 

Tom Faggus was a jovial soul, if ever there 
has been one, not making bones of little 
things, nor caring to seek evil. There was 
about him such a love of genuine human na- 
ture, that if a traveler said a good thing, he 
would give him back his purse again. It is 
true that he took people’s money more by 
force than fraud ; and the law (being used 
to the inverse method) was bitterly moved 
against him, although he could quote prec- 
edent. These things I do not understand ; 
having seen so much of robbery (some legal, 
some illegal), that I scarcely know, as here 
we say, one crow’s-foot from the other. It 
is beyond me, and above me, to discuss these 
subjects ; and in truth I love the law right 
well, when it doth support me, and when I 
can lay it down to my liking, with prejudice 
to nobody. Loyal, too, to the King am I, as 
behooves church-warden ; and ready to make 
the best of him, as he generally requires. 
But after all, I could not see (until I grew 
much older, and came to have some proper- 
ty) why Tom Faggus, working hard, was 
called a robber, and felon of great ; while 
the King, doing nothing at all (as became 
his dignity), was liege lord, and paramount 
owner ; with every body to thank him kind- 
ly for accepting tribute. 

For the present, however, I learned noth- 
ing more as to what our cousin’s profession 
was, only that mother seemed frightened, 
and whispered to him now and then not to 
talk of something, because of the children 
being there ; whereupon he always nodded 
with a sage expression, and applied himself 
to hollands. 

“Now let us go and see Winnie, Jack,” he 
said to me after supper ; “ for the most part 
I feed her before myself ; but she was so hot 
from the way you drove her. Now she must 
be grieving for me, and I never let her grieve 
long.” 

I was too glad to go with him, and Annie 
came slyly after us. The filly was walking 
to and fro on the naked floor of the stable 
(for he would not let her have any straw, 
until he should make a bed for her), and with- 
out so much as a headstall on, for he would 
not have her fastened. “Do you take my 
mare for a dog ?” he had said, when John Fry 
brought him a halter. And now she ran to 
him like a child, and her great eyes shone at 
the lantern. 

“ Hit me, Jack, and see what she will do. 
I will not let her hurt thee.” He was rub- 
bing her ears all the time he spoke, and she 
was leaning against him. Then I made be- 


LORNA DOONE. 


45 


lieve to strike him, and in a moment she 
caught me by the waistband, and lifted me 
clean from the ground, and was casting me 
down to trample upon me, when he stopped 
her suddenly. 

u What think you of that, boy ? Have you 
horse or dog that would do that for you ? Ay, 
and more than that she will do. If I were 
to whistle by-and-by in the tone that tells 
my danger, she would break this stable door 
down, and rush into the room to me. Noth- 
ing will keep her from me then, stone-wall 
or church-tower. Ah, Winnie, Winnie, you 
little witch, we shall die together.” 

. Then he turned away with a joke, and' be- 
gan to feed her nicely, for she was very dain- 
ty. Not a husk of oat would she touch that 
had been under the breath of another horse, 
however hungry she might be. And with 
her oats he mixed some powder, fetching it 
from his saddle-bags. What this was I could 
not guess, neither would he tell me, but 
laughed and called it “ star-shavings.” He 
watched her eat every morsel of it, with two 
or three drinks of pure water, ministered be- 
tween whiles ; and then he made her bed in 
a form 1 had never seen before, and so we 
said u good-night ” to her. 

Afterward by the fireside he kept us very 
merry, sitting in the great chimney-corner, 
and making us play games with him. And 
all the while he was smoking tobacco in a 
manner I never had seen before, not using 
any pipe for it, but having it rolled in little 
sticks about as long as my finger, blunt at 
one end and sharp at the other. The sharp 
end he would put in his mouth, and lay a 
brand of wood to the other, and then draw a 
white cloud of curling smoke, and we never 
tired of watching him. I wanted him to let 
me do it, but he said, u No, my son ; it is not 
meant for boys.” Then Annie put up her lips 
and asked, with both hands on his knees (for 
she had taken to him wonderfully), “ Is it 
meant for girls, then, Cousin Tom ?” But 
she had better not have asked, for he gave 
it her to try, and she shut both eyes and 
sucked at it. One breath, however, was 
quite enough, for it made her cough so vio- 
lently that Lizzie and I must thump her 
back until she was almost crying. To atone 
for that, Cousin Tom set to, and told us whole 
pages of stories, not about his own doings 
at all ; but strangely enough they seemed to 
concern almost every one else we had ever 
heard of. Without halting once for a word 
or a deed, his tales flowed onward as freely 
and brightly as the flames of the wood up 
the chimney, and with no smaller variety. 
For he spoke with the voices of twenty peo- 
ple, giving each person the proper manner, 
and the proper place to speak from ; so that 
Annie and Lizzie ran all about, and search- 
ed the clock and the linen-press. And he 
changed his face every moment so, and with 
such power of mimicry that, without so much 


as a smile of his own, he made even mother 
laugh so that she broke her new tenpenny 
waistband ; and as for us children, we rolled 
on the floor, and Betty Muxworthy roared in 
the wash-up. 


CHAPTER XII. 

A MAN JUSTLY POPULAR. 

Now, although Mr. Faggus was so clever, 
and generous, and celebrated, I know not 
whether, upon the whole, we were rather 
proud of him as a member of our family, or 
inclined to be ashamed of him. And indeed 
I think that the sway of the balance hung 
upon the company we were in. For in- 
stance, with the boys at Brendon — for there 
is no village , at Oare — I was exceeding 
proud to talk of him, and would freely brag 
of my cousin Tom. But with the rich par- 
sons of the neighborhood, or the justices 
(who came round now and then, and were 
glad to ride up to a warm farm-house), or 
even the well-to-do tradesmen of Porlock — 
in a word, any settled power, which was 
afraid of losing things — with all of them 
we were very shy of claiming our kinship 
to that great outlaw. 

And sure, I should pity as well as con- 
demn him, though our ways in the world 
were so different, knowing as I do his story ; 
which knowledge, methinks, would often 
lead us to let alone God’s prerogative — 
judgment, and hold by man’s privilege — 
pity. Not that I would find excuse for 
Tom’s downright dishonesty, which was be- 
yond doubt a disgrace to him, and no cred- 
it to his kinsfolk ; only that it came about 
without his meaning any harm, or seeing 
how he took to wrong \ yet gradually know- 
ing it. And now, to save any further trou- 
ble, and to meet those who disparage him 
(without allowance for the time, or the 
crosses laid upon him), I will tell the histo- 
ry of him, just as if he were not my cousin, 
and hoping to be heeded. And I defy any 
man to say that a word of this is either false, 
or in any way colored by family. Much 
cause he had to be harsh with the world ; 
and yet all acknowledged him very pleas- 
ant, when a man gave up his money. And 
often and often he paid the toll for the car- 
riage coming after him, because he had emp- 
tied their pockets, and would not add incon- 
venience. By trade he had been a black- 
smith, in the town of Northmolton, in Dev- 
onshire, a rough, rude place at the end of 
Exmoor ; so that many people marveled if 
such a man was bred there. Not only could 
he read and write, but he had solid sub- 
stance ; a piece of land worth a hundred 
pounds, and right of common for two hun- 
dred sheep, and a score and a half of beasts, 
lifting up or lying down. And being left an 


46 


LORNA DOONE. 


orphan (with all these cares upon him) he 
began to work right early, and made such a 
fame at the shoeing of horses, that the far- 
riers of Barum were like to lose their cus- 
tom. And indeed he won a golden Jacobus 
for the best-shod nag in the north of Devon, 
and some say that he never was forgiven. 

As to that, I know no more, except that 
men are jealous. But whether it were that 
or not, he fell into bitter trouble within a 
month of his victory; when his trade was 
growing upon him, and his sweetheart ready 
to marry him. For he loved a maid of South • 
molton (a currier’s daughter I think she was, 
and her name was Betsy Paramore), and her 
father had given consent ; and Tom Faggus, 
wishing to look his best, and be clean of 
course, had a tailor at work up stairs for 
him, who had come all the way from Exe- 
ter. And Betsy’s things were ready too — 
for which they accused him afterward, as if 
he could help that — when suddenly, like a 
thunder-bolt, a lawyer’s writ fell upon him. 

This was the beginning of a lawsuit with 
Sir Robert Bampfylde, a gentleman of the 
neighborhood, who tried to oust him from 
his common, and drove his cattle and har- 
assed them. And by that suit of law poor 
Tom was ruined altogether, for Sir Robert 
could pay for much swearing ; and then all 
his goods and his farm were sold up, and 
even his smithery taken. But he saddled 
his horse, before they could catch him, and 
rode away to Southmolton, looking more 
like a madman than a good farrier, as the 
people said who saw him. But when he ar- 
rived there, instead of comfort, they showed 
him the face of the door alone ; for the news 
of his loss was before him, and Master Para- 
more was a sound, prudent man, and a high 
member of the town council. It is said that 
they even gave him notice to pay for Betsy’s 
wedding-clothes, now that he was too poor 
to marry her. This may be false, and in- 
deed I doubt it ; in the first place, because 
Southmolton is a busy place for talking; 
and in the next, that I do not think the ac- 
tion would have lain at law, especially as 
the maid lost nothing, but used it all for her 
wedding next month with Dick Vellacott, 
of Mockham. 

All this was very sore upon Tom ; and he 
took it to heart so grievously, that he said, 
as a better man might have said, being loose 
of mind and property, “The world hath 
preyed on me like a wolf. God help me 
now to prey on the world.” 

And in sooth it did seem for a while as if 
Providence were with him, for he took rare 
toll on the highway, and his name was soon 
as good as gold anywhere this side of Bris- 
towe. He studied his business by night and 
by day, with three horses all in hard work, 
until he had made a fine reputation ; and 
then it was competent to him to rest, and 
he had plenty left for charity. And I ought 


to say for society too, for he truly loved high 
society, treating squires and noblemen (who 
much affected his company) to the very best 
fare of the hostel. And they say that once 
the King’s Justiciaries, being upon circuit, 
accepted his invitation, declaring merrily 
that if never true bill had been found against 
him, mine host should now be qualified to 
draw one. And so the landlords did; and 
he always paid them handsomely, so that 
all of them were kind to him, and contend- 
ed for his visits. Let it be known in any 
township that Mr. Faggus was taking his 
leisure at the inn, and straightway all the 
men flocked thither to drink his health with- 
out outlay, and all the women to admire him ; 
while the children were set at the cross-roads 
to give warning of any pfficers. 

One of his earliest meetings was with Sir 
Robert Bampfylde himself, who was riding 
along the Barum road with only one serving- 
man after him. Tom Faggus put a pistol to 
his head, being then obliged to be violent, 
through want of reputation ; while the serv- 
ing-man pretended to be a long way round 
the corner. Then the baronet pulled out his 
purse, quite trembling in the hurry of his po- 
liteness. Tom took the purse, and his ring, 
and time-piece, and then handed them back 
with a very low bow, saying that it was 
against all usage for him to rob a robber. 
Then he turned to the unfaithful knave, 
and trounced him right well for his coward- 
ice, and stripped him of all his property. 

But now Mr. Faggus kept only one horse, 
lest the Government should steal them ; and 
that one was the young mare Winnie. How 
he came by her he never would tell, but I 
think that she was presented to him by a 
certain colonel, a lover of sport, and very 
clever in horse-flesh, whose life Tom had 
saved from some gamblers. When I have 
added that Faggus as yet had never been 
guilty of bloodshed (for his eyes and the 
click of his pistol at first, and now his high 
reputation, made all his wishes respected), 
and that he never robbed a poor man, nei- 
ther insulted a woman, but was very good 
to the Church, and of hot patriotic opinions, 
and full of jest and jollity, I have said as 
much as is fair for him, and shown why he 
was so popular. Every body cursed the 
Doones, who lived apart disdainfully. But 
all good people liked Mr. Faggus — when he 
had not robbed them — and many a poor sick 
man or woman blessed him for other peo- 
ple’s money ; and all the hostlers, stable- 
boys, and tapsters entirely worshiped him. 

I have been rather long, and perhaps te- 
dious, in my account of him, lest at any time 
hereafter his character should be misunder- 
stood, and his good name disparaged ; where- 
as he was my second cousin, and the lover of 
my — but let that bide. ’Tis a melancholy 
story. 

He came again about three months after- 


LORNA DOONE. 


47 


■ward, in the beginning of the spring-time, 
and brought me a beautiful new carbine, 
having learned my love of such things, and 
my great desire to shoot straight. But 
mother would not let me have the gun, un- 
til he averred upon his honor that he had 
bought it honestly. And so he had, no doubt, 
so far as it is honest to buy with money ac- 
quired rampantly. Scarce could I stop to 
make my bullets in the mould which came 
along with it, but must be off to the Quarry 
hill, and new target I had made there. And 
he taught me then how to ride bright Win- 
nie, who was grown since I had seen her, but 
remembered me most kindly. After making 
much of Annie, who had a wondrous liking 
for him — and he said he was her godfather, 
but God knows how he could have been, un- 
less they confirmed him precociously — away 
he went, and young Winnie’s sides shone like 
a cherry by candle-light. 

Now I feel that of those boyish days I 
have little more to tell, because every thing 
went quietly, as the world for the most part 
does with us. I began to work at the farm 
in earnest, and tried to help my mother, and 
when I remembered Lorna Doone, it seemed 
no more than the thought of a dream which 
I could hardly call to mind. Now who cares 
to know how many bushels of wheat we grew 
to the acre, or how the cattle milched till we 
ate them, or what the turn of the seasons 
was ? But my stupid self seemed like to be 
the biggest of all the cattle, for having much 
to look after the sheep, and being always in 
kind appetite, I grew four inches longer in 
every year of my farming, and a matter of 
two inches wider, until there was no man 
of my size to be seen elsewhere upon Ex- 
moor. Let that pass : what odds to any 
how tall or wide I be ? There is no Doone’s 
door at Plover’s Barrows, and if there were 
I could never go through it. They vexed 
me so much about my size, long before I had 
completed it, girding at me with paltry jokes 
whose wit was good only to stay at home, 
that I grew shamefaced about the matter, 
and feared to encounter a looking-glass. 
But mother was very proud, and said she 
never could have too much of me. 

The worst of all to make me ashamed of 
bearing my head so high — a thing I saw no 
way to help, for I never could hang my chin 
down, and my back was like a gate-post 
whenever I tried to bend it — the worst of 
all was our little Eliza, who never could 
come to a size herself, though she had the 
wine from the Sacrament at Easter and All- 
hallowmas, only to be small and skinny, 
sharp, and clever crookedly. Not that her 
body was' out of the straight (being too 
small for that, perhaps), but that her wit 
was full of corners, jagged and strange, and 
uncomfortable. You never could tell what 
she might say next; and I like not that 
kind of woman. Now God forgive me for 


talking so of my own father’s daughter; 
and so much the more by reason that my 
father could not help it. The right way is 
to face the matter, and then be sorry for ev- 
ery one. My mother fell grievously on a 
slide, which John Fry had* made nigh the 
apple -room door, and hidden with straw 
from the stable, to cover his own great idle- 
ness. My father laid John’s nose on the 
ice, and kept him warm in spite of it ; but 
it was too late for Eliza. She was born 
next day with more mind than body — the 
worst thing that can befall a man. 

But Annie, my other sister, was now a fine 
fair girl, beautiful to behold. I could look 
at her by the fireside for an hour together, 
when I was not too sleepy, and think of my 
dear father. And she would do the same 
thing by me, only wait the between of the 
blazes. Her hair was done up in a knot be- 
hind, but some would fall over her shoul- 
ders ; and the dancing of the light was 
sweet to see through a man’s eyelashes. 
There never was a face that showed the 
light or the shadow of feeling, as if the 
heart was sun to it, more than our dear An- 
nie’s did. To look at her carefully, you 
might think that she was not dwelling on 
any thing ; and then she would know you 
were looking at her, and those eyes would 
tell all about it. God knows that I try to 
be simple enough, to keep to his meaning 
in me, and not make the worst of his chil- 
dren. Yet often have I been put to shame, 
and ready to bite my tongue off, after speak- 
ing amiss of any body, and lettiug out my 
littleness, when suddenly mine eyes have 
met the pure, soft gaze of Annie. 

As for the Doones, they were thriving still, 
and no one to come against them, except 
indeed by word of mouth, to which they lent 
no heed whatever. Complaints were made 
from time to time, both in high and low 
quarters (as the rank might be of the people 
robbed), and once or twice in the highest of 
all, to wit, the King himself. But His Maj- 
esty made a good joke about it (not meaning 
any harm, I doubt), and was so much pleased 
with himself thereupon, that he quite for- 
gave the mischief. Moreover, the main au- 
thorities were a long way off; and the Chan- 
cellor had no cattle on Exmoor; and as for 
my lord the Chief -justice, some rogue had 
taken his silver spoons ; whereupon his lord- 
ship swore that never another man would 
he hang until he had that one by the neck. 
Therefore the Doones went on as they list- 
ed, and none saw fit to meddle with them. 
For the only man who would have dared to 
come to close quarters with them, that is to 
say, Tom Faggus, himself was a quarry for 
the law, if ever it should be unhooded. 
Moreover, ho had transferred his business to 
the neighborhood of Wantage, in the county 
of Berks, where he found the climate drier, 
also good downs, and commons excellent for 


LORNA DOONE. 


41 

galloping, and richer yeomen than ours he, 
and better roads to rob them on. 

Some folk, who had wiser attended to their 
own affairs, said that I (being sizable now, 
and able to shoot not badly) ought to do 
something against those Doones, and show 
what I was made of. But for a time I was 
very bashful, shaking when called upon sud- 
denly, and blushing as deep as a maiden ; 
for my strength was not come upon me, and 
mayhap I had grown in front of it. And 
again, though I loved my father still, and 
would fire at a word about him, I saw not 
how it would do him good for me to harm 
his injurers. Some races are of revengeful 
kind, and will for years pursue their wrong, 
and sacrifice this world and the next for 
a moment’s foul satisfaction ; but methinks 
this comes of some black blood, perverted 
and never purified. And I doubt but men of 
true English birth are stouter than so to be 
twisted, though some of the women may take 
that turn, if their own life runs unkindly. 

Let that pass — I am never good at talk- 
ing of things beyond me. All I know is, that 
if I had met the Doone who had killed my 
father, I would gladly have thrashed him 
black and blue, supposing I were able ; but 
would never have fired a gun at him, unless 
he began that game with me, or fell upon 
more of my family, or were violent among 
women. And to do them justice, my mother 
and Annie were equally kind and gentle, but 
Eliza would flame and grow white with con- 
tempt, and not trust herself to speak to us. 

Now a strange thing came to pass that 
winter, when I was twenty-one years old, a 
very strange thing, which affrighted the 
rest, and made me feel uncomfortable. Not 
that there was any thing in it to do harm to 
any one, only that none could explain it, 
except by attributing it to the devil. The 
weather was very mild and open, and scarce- 
ly any snow fell ; at any rate none lay on 
the ground, even for an hour, in the highest 
part of Exmoor ; a thing which I knew not 
before nor since, as long as I can remember. 
But the nights were wonderfully dark, as 
though with no stars in the heaven ; and 
all day long the mists were rolling upon the 
hills and down them, as if the whole land 
were a wash-house. The moor-land was full 
of snipes and teal, and curlews flying and 
crying, and lapwings flapping heavily, and ra- 
vens hovering round dead sheep ; yet no red- 
shanks nor dotterel, and scarce any golden 
plovers (of which we have great store gen- 
erally), but vast lonely birds, that cried at 
night, and moved the whole air with their 
pinions ; yet no man ever saw them. It was 
dismal as well as dangerous now for any 
man to go fowling (which of late I loved 
much in the winter), because the fog would 
come down so thick that the pan of the gun 
was reeking, and the fowl out of sight ere 
the powder kindled, and then the sound of 


the piece was so dead, that the shooter fear-, 
ed harm, and glanced over his shoulder. 
But the danger of course was far less in this 
than in losing of the track, and falling into 
the mires, or over the brim of a precipice. 

Nevertheless I must needs go out, being 
young and very stupid, and feared of being 
afraid — a fear which a wise man has long 
cast by, having learned of the manifold dan- 
gers which ever and ever encompass us. 
And besides this folly and wildness of youth, 
perchance there was something, I know not 
what, of the joy we have in uncertainty. 
Mother, in fear of my missing home — though 
for that matter, I could smell supper, when 
hungry, through a hundred land-yards of 
fog — my dear mother, who thought of me 
ten times for one thought about herself, gave 
orders to ring the great sheep -bell which 
hung above the pigeon-cote, every ten min- 
utes of the day ; and the sound came through 
the plaits of fog, and I was vexed about it, 
like the letters of a copy-book. It remind- 
ed me, too, of Blundell’s bell, and the grief 
to go into school again. 

But during those two months of fog (for 
we had it all the winter), the saddest and 
the heaviest thing was to stand beside the 
sea — to be upon the beach yourself, and see 
the long waves coming in; to know that 
they are long waves but only see a piece of 
them ; and to hear them lifting roundly, 
swelling over smooth green rocks, plashing 
down in the hollow corners, but bearing on 
all the same as e ver, soft and sleek and sor- 
rowful, till their little noise is over. 

One old man who lived at Lynmouth, 
seeking to be buried there, having been 
more than half over the world, though shy 
to speak about it, and fain to come home 
to his birth-place, this old Will Watcombe 
(who dwelt by the water), said that our 
strange winter arose from a thing he called 
the u Gulf Stream ” rushing up Channel sud- 
denly. He said it was hot water, almost fit 
for a man to shave with, and it threw all 
our cold water out, and ruined the fish and 
the spawning-time, and a cold spring would 
come after it. I was fond of going to Lyn- 
mouth on Sunday to hear this old man talk, 
for sometimes he would discourse with me, 
when nobody else could move him. He 
told me that this powerful flood set in upon 
our coast so hard, sometimes once in ten 
years, and sometimes not for fifty, and the 
Lord only knew the sense of it; but that 
when it came, therewith came warmth, and 
clouds and fog, and moisture, and nuts, and 
fruit, and even shells ; and all the tides 
were thrown abroad. As for nuts, he wink- 
ed a while and chewed a piece of tobacco ; 
yet did I not comprehend him. Only after- 
ward I heard that nuts with liquid kernels 
came, traveling on the Gulf Stream ;• for nev- 
er before was known so much foreign cor- 
dial landed upon our coast, floating ashore 


LORNA DOONE. 


49 


by mistake in the fog, and (what with the 
tossing and the mist) too much astray to 
learn its duty. 

Folk, who are ever too prone to talk, 
said that Will Watcombe himself knew bet- 
ter than any body else about this drift of 
the Gulf Stream, and the places where it 
would come ashore, aud the caves that took 
the indraught. But De Whichehalse, our 
great magistrate, certified that there was 
no proof of unlawful importation ; neither 
good cause to suspect it, at a time of Chris- 
tian charity. And we knew that it was a 
foul thing for some quarrymen to say that 
night after night they had been digging a 
new cellar at Ley Manor to hold the little 
marks of respect found in the caverns at 
high-water weed. Let that be : it is none 
of my business to speak evil of dignities; 
only we common people joked of the “ Gulp 
Stream,”' as we called it. 

But the thing which astonished and 
frightened us so, was not, I do assure you, 
the landing of foreign spirits, nor the loom 
of a lugger at twilight in the gloom of 
the winter moonrise. That which made us 
crouch in by the fire, or draw the bed- 
clothes over us, and try to think of some- 
thing else, was a strange mysterious sound. 

At gray of night, when the sun was gone, 
and no * red in the west remained, neither 
were stars forthcoming, suddenly a wailiug 
voice rose along the valleys, aud a sound in 
the air, as of people running. It mattered 
not whether you stood on the moor, or 
crouched behind rocks away from it, or 
down among reedy places; all as one the 
sound would come, now from the heart of 
the earth beneath, now overhead bearing 
down on you. And then there was rushing 
of something by, and melancholy laughter, 
and the hair of a man would stand on end, 
before he could reason properly. 

God, in his mercy, knows that I am stu- 
pid enough for any man, and very slow of 
impression, nor ever could bring myself to 
believe that our Father would let the evil 
one get the upper hand of us. But when I 
had heard that sound three times, iy. the 
lonely gloom of the evening fog, aud the 
cold that followed the lines of air, I was 
loath to go abroad by night, even so far as 
the stables, and loved the light of a candle 
more, and the glow of a fire with company. 

There were many stories about it, of 
course, all over the breadth of the moor- 
land. But those who had heard it most 
often declared that it must be the wail of 
a woman’s voice, and the rustle of robes 
fleeing horribly, and fiends in the fog go- 
ing after her. To that, however, I paid no 
heed, when any body was with me; only 
we drew more close together, and barred 
.the doors at sunset. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

MASTER HUCKABACK COMES IN. 

Mr. Reuben Huckaback, whom many 
good folk in Dulverton will remember long 
after my time, was my mother’s uncle, being 
indeed her mother’s brother. He owned 
the very best shop in the town, and did a 
fine trade in soft ware, especially when the 
pack-horses came safely in at Christmas- 
time. And we being now his only kindred 
(except, indeed, his granddaughter, little 
Ruth Huckaback, of whom no one took any 
heed), mother beheld it a Christian duty to 
keep as well as could be with him, both for 
love of a nice old man, and for the sake 
of her children. And truly the Dulverton 
people said that he was the richest man in 
their town, and could buy up half the coun- 
ty armigers ; ay, and if it came to that, they 
would like to see any man, at Bampton, or 
at Wivelscombe, and you might say almost 
Taunton, who could put down golden Ja- 
cobus and Carolus against him. 

Now this old gentleman — so they called 
him, according to his money; and I have 
seen many worse ones, more violent and 
less wealthy — he must needs come away 
that time to spend the New-year-tide with 
us; not that he wanted to do it (for he 
hated country life), but because my mother 
pressing, as mothers will do to a good bag 
of gold, had wrung a promise from him ; 
and the only boast of his life was that nev- 
er yet had he broken his word, at least since 
he opened business. 

Now it pleased God that Christmas-time 
(in spite of all the fogs) to send safe home 
to Dulverton, and, what was more, with their 
loads quite safe, a goodly string of pack- 
horses. Nearly half of their charge was 
for Uncle Reuben, and he knew how to 
make the most of it. Then, having bal- 
anced his debits and credits, and set the 
writs running against defaulters, as be- 
hooves a good Christian at Christmas-tide, 
he saddled his horse, and rode off toward 
Oare, with a good stout coat upon him, and 
leaving Ruth aud his head man plenty to 
do, and little to eat until they should see 
him again. 

It had been settled between us that we 
should expect him soon after noon, on the 
last day of December. For the Doones be- 
ing lazy and fond of bed, as the manner is 
of dishonest folk, the surest way to escape 
them was to travel before they were up and 
about, to wit, in the forenoon of the day. 
But herein we reckoned without our host ; 
for, being in high festivity, as became good 
Papists, the robbers were too lazy, it seems, 
to take the trouble of going to bed ; aud forth 
they rode on the Old-year-morning, not with 
any view to business, but purely in search of 
mischief. 

We had put off our dinner till one o’clock 


4 


50 


LORNA DOONE. 


(which to me was a sad foregoing), and there 
was to be a brave supper at six of the clock, 
upon New -years’- eve ; and the singers to 
come with their lanterns, and do it outside 
the parlor-window, and then have hot cup 
till their heads should go round, after mak- 
ing away with the victuals. For although 
there was nobody now in our family to be 
church- warden of Oare, it was well admitted 
that we were the people entitled alone to that 
dignity ; and though Nicholas Snowe was in 
office by name, he managed it only by moth- 
er’s advice ; and a pretty mess he made of it, 
so that every one longed for a Ridd again, 
soon as ever I should be old enough. — This 
Nicholas Snowe was to come in the evening, 
with his three tall, comely daughters, strap- 
ping girls, and well skilled in the dairy ; and 
the story was all over the parish, on a stu- 
pid conceit of John Fry’s, that I should have 
been in love with all three, if there had been 
but one of them. These Snowes were to 
come, and come they did, partly because Mr. 
Huckaback liked to see fine young maidens, 
and partly because none but Nicholas Snowe 
could smoke a pipe now all around our parts, 
except of the very high people, whom we 
durst never invite. And Uncle Ben, as we 
all knew well, was a great hand at his pipe, 
and would sit for hours over it, in our warm 
chimney-corner, and never want to say a 
word, unless it were inside him ; only he 
liked to have somebody there over against 
him smoking. 

Now when I came in, before one o’clock, 
after seeing to the cattle — for the day was 
thicker than ever, and we must keep the cat- 
tle close at home if we wished to see any 
more of them — I fully expected to find Un- 
cle Ben sitting in the fire-place, lifting one 
cover and then another, as his favorite man- 
ner was, and making sweet mouths over 
them; for he loved our bacon rarely, and 
they had no good leeks at Dulverton ; and 
he was a man who always would see his bus- 
iness done himself. But there, instead of 
my finding him with his quaint, dry face 
pulled out at me, and then shut up sharp not 
to be cheated — who should run out but Bet- 
ty Muxworthy, and poke me with a sauce- 
pan-lid. 

“ Get out of that now, Betty,” I said in my 
politest manner ; for really Betty was now 
become a great domestic evil. She would 
have her own way so, and of all things the 
most distressful was for a man to try to rea- 
son with her. 

“ Zider-press,” cried Betty again, for she 
thought it a fine joke to call me that, be- 
cause of my size, and my hatred of it ; “ here 
be a rare get up, anyhow.” 

“A rare good dinner, you mean, Betty. 
Well, and I have a rare good appetite.” 
With that I wanted to go and smell it, and 
not to stop for Betty. 

“ Troost thee for thiccy, Jan Ridd. But 


thee must keep it bit langer, I rackon. Her 
baint coom, Maister Zider-press. Whatt’e 
mak of that now ?” 

“ Do you mean to say that Uncle Ben has 
not arrived yet, Betty ?” 

“Raived! I knaws nout about that, whuth- 
er a hath or noo. Only I tell ’e her baint 
coom. Rackon them Dooneses hath gat 
’un.” 

And Betty, who hated Uncle Ben, because 
he never gave her a groat, and she was not 
allowed to dine with him,. I am sorry to say 
that Betty Muxworthy grinned all across, 
and poked me again with the greasy sauce-*- 
pan-cover. But I, misliking so to be treat- 
ed, strode through the kitchen indignantly, 
for Betty behaved to me even now as if I 
were only Eliza. 

“ Oh Johnny, Johnny,” my mother cried, 
running out of the grand show-parlor, where 
the case of stuffed birds was, and peacock- 
feathers, and*the white hare killed by grand- 
father ; “ I am so glad you are come at last ! 
There is something sadly amiss, Johnny.” 

Mother had upon her wrists something 
very wonderful, of the nature of fal-lal as 
we say, and for which she had an inborn 
turn, being of good draper family, and pol- 
ished above the yeomanry. Nevertheless I 
could never bear it, partly because I felt it 
to be out of place in our good farm-house, 
partly because I hate frippery, partly be- 
cause it seemed to me to have nothing to do 
with father, and partly because I never could 
tell the reason of my hating it. And yet the 
poor soul had put them on, not to show her 
hands off (which were above her station), 
but simply for her children’s sake, because 
Uncle Ben had given them. But another 
thing, I never could bear for man or woman 
to call me “Johnny.” “Jack,” or “John,” 
I cared not which ; and that was honest 
enough, and no smallness of me there, I say. 

“ Well, mother, what is the matter, then ?” 

“ I am sure you need not be angry, Johnny. 
I only hope it is nothing to grieve about, in- 
stead of being angry. You are very sweet- 
tempered, I know, John Ridd, and perhaps 
a little too sweet at times ” — here she meant 
the Snowe girls, and I hanged my head — 
“but what would you say if the people there” 
— she never would call them “ Doones ” — 
“ had gotten your poor Uncle Reuben, horse, 
and Sunday coat, and all ?” 

“ Why, mother, I should be sorry for them. 
He would set up a shop by the river-side, 
and come away with all their money.” 

“That all you have to say, John! And 
my dinner done to a very turn, and the sup- 
per all fit to go down, and no worry, only to 
eat and be done with it ! And all the new 
plates come from Watchett, with the Wat- 
chett blue upon them, at the risk of the lives 
of every body, and the capias from good 
Aunt Jane for stuffing a curlew with onion 
before he begins to get cold, and make a 


LORNA DOONE. 


51 


woodcock of him, and the way to turn the 
flap over in the inside of a roasting pig — ” 

“ Well, mother dear, I am very sorry. 
But let us have our dinner. You know we 
promised not to wait for him after one 
o’clock ; and you only make us hungry. Ev- 
ery thing will he spoiled, mother, and what a 
pity to think of ! After that I will go to seek 
for him in the thick of the fog, like a nee- 
dle in a hay-hand ; that is to say, unless you 
think ” — for she looked very grave about it 
— “ unless you really think, mother, that I 
ought to go without dinner.” 

u Oh no, John, I uever thought that, thank 
God! Bless Him for my children’s appe- 
tites ! and what is Uncle Ben to them ?” 

So we made a very good dinner indeed, 
though wishing that he could have some of 
it, and wondering how much to leave for 
him ; and then, as no sound of his horse had 
been heard, I set out with my gun to look 
for him. 

I followed the track on the side of the 
hill, from the farm-yard, where the sled- 
marks are — for we have no wheels upon Ex- 
moor yet, nor ever shall, I suppose ; though 
a dunder-headed man tried it last winter, 
and broke his axle piteously, and was nigh 
to break his neck — and after that I went 
all along on the ridge of the rabbit-cleve, 
with the brook running thin in the bottom ; 
and then down to the Lynn -stream, and 
leaped it, and so up the hill and the moor 
beyond. The fog hung close all around me 
then, when I turned the crest of the high- 
land, and the gorse both before and behind 
me looked like a man crouching down in 
ambush. But still there was a good cloud 
of daylight, being scarce three of the clock 
yet, and when a lead of red deer came across, 
I could tell them from sheep even now. I 
was half inclined to shoot at them, for the 
children did love venison ; but they drooped 
their heads so, and looked so faithful, that 
it seemed hard measure to do it. If one of 
them had bolted away, no doubt I had let 
go at him. 

After that I kept on the track, trudging 
very stoutly, for nigh upon three miles, and 
my beard (now beginning to grow at some 
length) was full of great drops and prickly, 
whereat I was very proud. I had not so 
much as a dog with me, and the place was 
unkid and lonesome, and the rolling clouds 
very desolate ; aud now if a wild sheep ran 
across he was scared at me as an enemy ; and 
I for my part could not tell the meaning of 
the marks on him. We called all this part 
“ Gibbet-moor,” not being in our parish ; but 
though there were gibbets enough upon it, 
most part of the bodies was gone for the 
value of the chains, they said, and the teach- 
ing of young chirurgeons. 

But of all this I had little fear, being no 
more a school -boy now, but a youth well ac- 
quaint with Exmoor, and the wise art of the 


sign-posts, whereby a man, who barred the 
road, now opens it up both ways with his 
Anger -bones, so far as rogues allow him. 
My carbine was loaded and freshly primed, 
and I knew myself to be even now a match 
in strength for any two men of the size 
around our neighborhood, except in the Glen 
Doone. “Girt Jan Ridd,” I was called al- 
ready, and folk grew feared to wrestle with 
me ; though I was tired of hearing about it, 
and often longed to be smaller. And most 
of all upon Sundays, when I had to make 
way up our little church, and the maidens 
tittered at me. 

The soft white mist came thicker around 
me, as the evening fell, and the peat-ricks 
here and there, and the furze-hucks of the 
summer-time, were all out of shape in the 
twist of it. By-and-by I began to doubt 
where I was, or how come there, not having 
seen a gibbet lately ; and then I heard the 
draught of the wind up a hollow place with 
rocks to it ; and for the first time fear broke 
out (like cold sweat) upon me. And yet I 
knew what a fool I was, to fear nothing but 
a sound ! But when I stopped to listen, there 
was no sound, more than a beating noise, 
and that was all inside me. Therefore I 
went on again, making company of myself, 
and keeping my gun quite ready. 

Now when I came to an unknown place, 
where a stone was set up endwise, with a 
faint red cross upon it, and a polish from 
some conflict, I gathered my courage to stop 
and think, having sped on the way too hot- 
ly. Against that stone I set my gun, trying 
my spirit to leave it so, but keeping with 
half a hand for it ; and then what to do 
next was the wonder. As for flnding Uncle 
Ben — that was his own business, or at any 
rate his executor’s; flrst I had to And my- 
self, and plentifully would thank God to And 
myself at home again, for the sake of all our 
family. 

The volumes of the mist came rolling at 
me (like great logs of wood, pillowed out 
with sleepiness), and between them there 
was nothing more than waiting for the next 
one. Then every thing went out of sight, 
and glad was I of the stone behind me, and 
view of mine own shoes. Then a distant 
noise went by me, as of many horses gallop- 
ing, and in my fright I set my gun and said, 
“God send something to shoot at.” Yet 
nothing came, and my gun fell back, with- 
out my will to lower it. 

But presently, while I was thinking “ What 
a fool I am !” arose as if from below my feet, 
so that the great stone trembled, that long 
lamenting, lonesome sound, as of an evil 
spirit not knowing what to do with it. For 
the moment I stood like a root, without ei- 
ther hand or foot to help me, and the hair of 
my head began to crawl, lifting my hat, as 
a snail lifts his house, and my heart like 
a shuttle went to and fro. But flnding no 


62 


LORNA DOONE. 


harm to come of it, neither visible form ap- 
proaching, I wiped my forehead and hoped 
for the best, and resolved to run every step 
of the way till I drew our own latch behind 
me. 

Yet here again I was disappointed, for no 
sooner was I come to the cross-ways by the 
black pool in the hole, but I heard through 
the patter of my own feet a rough low sound 
very close in the fog, as of a hobbled sheep 
a-coughing. I listened, and feared, and yet 
listened again, though I wanted not to hear 
it. For beiug in haste of the homeward 
road, and all my heart having heels to it, 
loath I was to stop in the dusk for the sake 
of an aged wether. Yet partly my love of 
all animals, and partly my fear of the farm- 
er’s disgrace, compelled me to go to the suc- 
cor, and the noise was coming nearer. A 
dry, short, wheezing sound it was, barred 
with coughs and want of breath ; but thus I 
made the meaning of it : 

“Lord have mercy upon me! O Lord, 
upon my soul have mercy! An if I cheated 
Sam Hicks last week, Lord knowest how 
well he deserved it, and lied in every stock- 
ing’s mouth — O Lord, where be I agoing ?” 

These words, with many jogs between 
them, came to me through the darkness, 
and then a long groan and a choking. I 
made toward the sound, as nigh as ever I 
could guess, and presently was met, point- 
blank, by the head of the mountain pony. 
Upon its back lay a man bound down, with 
his feet on the neck and his head to the tail, 
and his arms falling down like stirrups. The 
wild little nag was scared of its life by the 
unaccustomed burden, and had been tossing 
and rolling hard, in desire to get ease of it. 

Before the little horse could turn, I caught 
him, jaded as he was, by his wet and griz- 
zled forelock, and he saw that it was vain 
7 / 

to struggle, but strove to bite me none the 
less, until I smote him upon the nose. 

“ Good and worthy sir,” I said to the man 
who was riding so roughly, “ fear nothing : 
no harm shall come to thee.” 

“Help, good friend, whoever thou art,” he 
gasped, but could not look at me, because 
his neck was jerked so ; “ God hath sent 
thee, and not to rob me, because it is done 
already.” 

“What, Uncle Ben!” I cried, letting go 
the horse in amazement that the richest 
man in Dulverton — “ Uncle Ben here in this 
plight ! What, Mr. Reuben Huckaback !” 

“An honest hosier and draper, serge and 
long -cloth warehouseman” — he groaned 
from rib to rib — “ at the sign of the gar- 
tered kitten in the loyal town of Dulverton. 
For God’s sake, let me down, good fellow, 
from this accursed marrow -bone; and a 
groat of good money will I pay thee, safe 
in my house to Dulverton ; but take notice 
that the horse is mine, no less than the nag 
they robbed from me.” 


“What, Uncle Ben, dost thou not know 
me, thy dutiful nephew, John Ridd ?” 

Not to make a long story of it, I cut the 
thongs that bound him, and set him astride 
on the little horse ; but he was too weak to 
stay so. Therefore I mounted him on my 
back, turning the horse into horse-steps, and 
leading the pony by the cords which I fast- 
ened around his nose, set out for Plover’s 
Barrows. 

Uncle Ben went fast asleep on my back, 
being jaded and shaken beyond his strength, 
for a man of three-score-and-five ; and as 
soon as he felt assured of safety he would 
talk no more. And, to tell the truth, he 
snored so loudly, that I could almost be- 
lieve that fearful noise in the fog every 
night came all the way from Dulverton. 

Now, as soon as ever I brought him in, 
we set him up in the chimney-corner, com- 
fortable and handsome ; and it was no little 
delight to me to get him off my back ; for, 
like his own fortune, Uncle Ben was of a 
good round figure. He gave his long coat a 
shake or two, and he stamped about in the 
kitchen, until he was sure of his where- 
abouts, and then he fell asleep again until 
supper should be ready. 

“ He shall marry Ruth,” he said by-and- 
by to himself, and not to me ; “ he shall 
marry Ruth for this, and have my little sav- 
ings, soon as they be worth the having. 
Very little as yet, very little indeed ; and 
ever so much gone to-day along of them 
rascal robbers.” 

My mother made a dreadful stir, of course, 
about Uncle Ben being in such a plight as 
this ; so I left him to her care and Annie’s, 
and soon they fed him rarely, while I went 
out to see to the comfort of the captured 
pony. And in truth he was worth the 
catching, and served us very well after- 
ward, though Uncle Ben was inclined to 
claim him for his business at Dulverton, 
where they have carts and that like. “ But,” 
I said, “ you shall have him, sir, and wel- 
come, if you will only ride him home as first 
I found you riding him.” And with that he 
dropped it. 

A very strange old man he was, short in 
his manner, though long of body, glad to do 
the contrary thing to what any one expected 
of him, and always looking sharply at peo- 
ple, as if he feared to be cheated. This sur- 
prised me much at first, because it showed 
his ignorance of what we farmers are — an 
upright race, as you may find, scarcely ever 
cheating indeed, except upon market - day, 
and even then no more than may be helped 
by reason of buyers expecting it. Now our 
simple ways were a puzzle to him, as I told 
him very often ; but he only laughed, and 
rubbed his mouth with the back of his dry, 
shining hand ; and I think he shortly began 
to languish for want of some one to higgle 
with. I had a great mind to give him. the 


LORNA DOONE. 


53 


pony, because he thought himself cheated 
in that case ; only he would conclude that 
I did it with some view to a legacy. 

Of course, the Doones, and nobody else, 
had robbed good Uncle Reuben ; and then 
they grew sportive, and took his horse, an 
especially sober nag, and bound the master 
upon the wild one, for a little change, as 
they told him. For two or three hours they 
had tine enjoyment chasing him through 
the fog, and making much sport of his groan- 
ings; and then waxing hungry, they went 
their way, and left him to opportunity. Now 
Mr. Huckaback growing able to walk in a 
few days’ time, became thereupon impatient, 
and could not be brought to understand 
why he should have been robbed at all. 

“I have never deserved it,” he said to 
himself, not knowing much of Providence, 
except with a small p to it; “I have never 
deserved it, and will not stand it in the 
name of our lord the King, not I!” At oth- 
er times he would burst forth thus : “ Three- 
score years and five have I lived an honest 
and laborious life, yet never was I robbed 
before. And now to be robbed in my old 
age ; to be robbed for the first time now !” 

Thereupon, of course, we would tell him 
how truly thankful he ought to be for never 
having been robbed before, in spite of living 
so long in this world, and that he was tak- 
ing a very ungrateful, not to say ungracious, 
view, in thus repining and feeling aggrieved; 
when any one else would have knelt and 
thanked God for enjoying so long an immu- 
nity. But say what we would, it was all as 
one. Uncle Ben stuck fast to it, that he had 
nothing to thank God for. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A MOTION WHICH ENDS IN A MULL. 

Instead of minding his New -year pud- 
ding, Master Huckaback carried on so about 
his mighty grievance, that at last we began 
to think there must be something in it after 
all, especially as he assured us that choice 
and costly presents for the young people of 
our household were among the goods divest- 
ed. But mother told him her children had 
plenty, and wanted no gold and silver ; and 
little Eliza spoke up and said, “ You can give 
us the pretty things, Uncle Ben, when we 
come in the summer to see you.” 

Our mother reproved Eliza for this, al- 
though it was the heel of her own foot ; and 
then, to satisfy our uncle, she promised to call 
Farmer Nicholas Snowe to be of our coun- 
cil that evening, “ and if the young maidens 
would kindly come, without taking thought 
to smooth themselves, why it would be all 
the merrier, and who knew but what Uncle 
Huckaback might bless the day of his rob- 
bery, etc., etc. — aud thorough good honest 


girls they were, fit helpmates either for shop 
or farm.” All of which was meant for me ; 
but I stuck to my platter, and answered not. 

In the evening Farmer Suowe came up, 
leading his daughters after him, like fillies 
trimmed for a fair ; and Uncle Ben, who had 
not seen them on the night of his mishap 
(because word had been sent to stop them), 
was mightily pleased and very pleasant, ac- 
cording to his town-bred ways. The dam- 
sels had seen good company, aud soon got 
over their fear of his wealth, and played him 
a number of merry pranks, which made our 
mother quite jealous for Annie, who was al- 
ways shy and diffident. However, when the 
hot cup was done, and before the mulled 
wine was ready, we packed all the maidens 
in the parlor and turned the key upon them ; 
and then we drew near to the kitchen fire to 
hear Uncle Ben’s proposal. Farmer Snowe 
sat up in the corner, caring little to hear 
about any thing, but smoking slowly and 
nodding backward like a sheep-dog dream- 
ing. Mother was in the settle, of course, 
knitting hard, as usual; and Uncle Ben took 
to a three-legged stool, as if all but that 
had been thieved from him. Howsoever, he 
kept his breath from speech, giving privi- 
lege, as was due, to mother. 

“Master Snowe, you are well assured,” 
said mother, coloring like the furze as it 
took the flame aud fell over, “ that our kins- 
man here hath received rough harm on his 
peaceful journey from Dulverton. The times 
are bad, as we all know well, and there is no 
sign of bettering them ; and if I could see 
our lord the King I might say things to move 
him : nevertheless, I have had so much of 
my own account to vex for — ” 

“ You are flying out of the subject, Sarah,” 
said Uncle Ben, seeing tears in her eyes, and 
tired of that matter. 

“ Zettle the pralimbinaries,” spoke Farmer 
Snowe, on appeal from us ; “ virst zettle the 
pralimbinaries ; and then us knows what be 
drivin’ at.” 

“ Preliminaries be d — d, sir !” cried Uncle 
Ben, losing his temper. “What prelimina- 
ries were there when I was robbed, I should 
like to know ? Robbed in this parish, as I 
can prove to the eternal disgrace of Oare 
and the scandal of all England. And I hold 
this parish to answer for it, sir ; this parish 
shall make it good, being a nest of foul 
thieves as it is ; ay, farmers and yeomen, and 
all of you. I will beggar every man in this 
parish, if they be not beggars already, ay, 
and sell your old church up before your eyes, 
but what I will have back my tarlatan, time- 
piece, saddle, and dove-tailed nag.” 

Mother looked at me, and I looked at 
Farmer Snowe, and we all were sorry for 
Master Huckaback; putting our hands up 
one to another, that nobody should brow- 
beat him; because we all knew what our 
parish was, and none the worse for strong 


54 


LORNA DOONE. 


language, however rich the man might he. 
But Uncle Ben took it a different way. He 
thought that we all were afraid of him, and 
that Oare parish was but as Moab or Edom 
for him to cast his shoe over. 

“ Nephew Jack,” he cried, looking at me 
when I was thinking what to say, and find- 
ing only emptiness ; “ you are a heavy lout, 
sir; a bumpkin, a clod-hopper; and I shall 
leave you nothing, unless it be my boots to 
grease.” 

“Well, uncle,” I made answer, “I will 
grease your boots all the same for that, so 
long as you be our guest, sir.” 

Now that answer, made without a thought, 
stood me for two thousand pounds, as you 
shall see by-and-by, perhaps. 

“'As to the parish,” my mother cried out, 
being too hard set to contain herself, “ the 
parish can defend itself, and we may leave 
it to do so. But our Jack is not like that, 
sir; and I will not have him spoken of. 
Leave him, indeed ! Who wants you to do 
more than to leave him alone, sir ; as he 
might have done you the other night, and 
as no one else would have dared to do. And 
after that, to think so meanly of me and of 
my children !” 

“Hoity-toity, Sarah! Your children, I 
suppose, are the same as other people’s.” 

“ That they are not, and never will be ; 
and you ought to know it, Uncle Reuben, if 
any one in the world ought. Other people’s 
children !” 

“Well, well!” Uncle Reuben answered; 
“ I know very little of children, except my 
little Ruth, and she is nothing wonderful.” 

“ I never said that my children were won- 
derful, Uncle Ben ; nor did I ever think it. 
But as for being good — ” 

Here mother fetched out her handkerchief, 
being overcome by our goodness ; and I told 
her, with my hand to my mouth, not to no- 
tice him, though he might be worth ten 
thousand times ten thousand pounds. 

But Farmer Snowe came forward now, 
for he had some sense sometimes ; and he 
thought it was high time for him to say a 
word for the parish. 

“ Maister Huckaback,” he began, pointing 
with his pipe at him, the end that was done 
in sealing-wax, “tooching of what you was 
plaized to zay ’bout this here parish, and no 
oother, mind me no oother parish but thees, 
I use the vreedom, zur, for to tell ’e that thee 
be a laiar.” 

Then Farmer Nicholas Snowe folded his 
arms across, with the bowl of his pipe on 
the upper one, and gave me a nod, arid then 
one to mother, to testify how he had done 
his duty, and recked not what might come 
of it. However, he got little thanks from 
us; for the parish was nothing at all to my 
mother, compared with her children’s inter- 
ests ; and I thought it hard that an uncle of 
mine, and an old man too, should be called a 


liar by a visitor at our fire-place ; for we, in 
our rude part of the world, counted it one of 
the worst disgraces that could befall a man 
to receive the lie from any one. But Uncle 
Ben, as it seems, was used to it, in the way 
of trade : just as people of fashion are, by a 
style of courtesy. 

Therefore the old man only looked with 
pity at Farmer Nicholas; and with a sort 
of sorrow too, reflecting how much he might 
have made in a bargain with such a custom- 
er, so ignorant and hot-headed. 

“Now let us bandy words no more,” said 
mother, very sweetly; “nothing is easier 
than sharp words, except to wish them un- 
spoken ; as I do many and many’s the time, 
when I think of my good husband. But 
now let us hear from Uncle Reuben what he 
would have us do to remove this disgrace 
from among us, and to satisfy him of his 
goods.” 

“ I care not for my goods, woman,” Master 
Huckaback answered, grandly; “although 
they were of large value, about them I say 
nothing. But what I demand is this, the 
punishment of those scoundrels.” 

“ Zober, man, zober!” cried Farmer Nich- 
olas ; “ we be too naigh Badgery ’ood to 
spake like that of the Dooneses.” 

“Pack of cowards!” said Uncle Reuben, 
looking first at the door, however; “much 
chance I see of getting redress from the valor 
of this Exmoor! And you, Master Snowe, 
the very man whom I looked to to raise the 
country, and take the lead as church-warden 
— why my youngest shop-man would match 
his ell against you. Pack of cowards!” 
cried Uncle Ben, rising and shaking his lap- 
pets at us; “don’t pretend to answer me. 
Shake you all off, that I do — nothing more 
to do with you !” 

We knew it useless to answer him, and 
conveyed our knowledge to one another, 
without any thing to vex him. However, 
when the mulled wine was come, and a good 
deal of it gone (the season being Epiphany), 
Uncle Reuben began to think that he might 
have been too hard with us. Moreover, he 
was beginning now to respect Farmer Nich- 
olas bravely, because of the way he had 
smoked his pipes, aud the little noise made 
over them. Aud Lizzie and Annie were do- 
ing their best — for now we had let the girls 
out — to wake more lightsome uproar ; also 
young Faith Snowe was toward to keep the 
old men’s cups allow, and hansel them to 
their liking. 

So at the close of our entertainment, when 
the girls were gone away to fetch and light 
their lanterns (over which they made rare 
noise, blowing each the other’s out, for count- 
ing of the sparks to come), Master Huckaback 
stood up, without much aid from the crock- 
saw, aud looked at mother and all of us. 

“ Let no one leave this place,” said he, 
“ until I have said what I want to say ; for 


LORNA DOONE. 


55 


saving of ill-will among us, and growth, of 
cheer and comfort. May he I have carried 
things too far, even to the hounds of churl- 
ishness, and beyond the bounds of good man- 
ners. I will not unsay one word I have said, 
having never yet done so in my life ; hut I 
w r ould alter the manner of it, and set it forth 
in this light. If you folks upon Exmoor 
here are loath and wary at fighting, yet you 
are brave at better stuff, the best and kind- 
est I ever knew in the matter of feeding.” 

Here he sat down with tears in his eyes, 
and called for a little mulled bastard. All 
the maids, who were now come back, raced 
to get it for him, but Annie of course was 
foremost. And herein ended the expedi- 
tion, a perilous and a great one, against 
the Doones of Bagworthy ; an enterprise 
over which we had all talked plainly more 
than was good for us. For my part, I slept 
well that night, feeling myself at home 
again, now that the fighting was put aside, 
and the fear of it turned to the comfort of 
talking what we would have done. 


CHAPTER XV. 

MASTER HUCKABACK FAILS OF WARRANT. 

On the following day Master Huckaback, 
with some show of mystery, demanded from 
my mother an escort into a dangerous part 
of the world, to which his business compel- 
led him. My mother made answer to this 
that he was kindly welcome to take our 
John Fry with him ; at which the good 
clothier laughed, and said that John was 
nothing like big enough, but another John, 
must serve his turn, not only for his size, 
but because if he were carried away, no 
stone would be left unturned upon Exmoor 
until he should be brought back again. 
Hereupon my mother grew very pale, and 
found fifty reasons against my going, each 
of them weightier than the true one, as Eliza 
{who was jealous of me) managed to whis- 
per to Annie. On the other hand, I was 
quite resolved (directly the thing was men- 
tioned) to see Uncle Reuben through with 
it ; and it added much to my self-esteem to 
be the guard of so rich a man. Therefore I 
soon persuaded mother, with her head upon 
my breast, to let me go and trust in God ; 
and after that I was greatly vexed to find 
that this dangerous enterprise was nothing 
more than a visit to the Baron de Whiche- 
halse, to lay an information, and sue a war- 
rant against the Doones, and a posse to exe- 
cute it. 

Stupid as I always have been, and must 
ever be, no doubt, I could well have told 
Uncle Reuben that his journey was no wiser 
one than that of the men of Gotham ; that 
he never would get from Hugh de Whiche- 
halse a warrant against the Doones ; more- ! 


over, that if he did get one, his own wig 
would be singed with it. But for divers 
reasons I held my peace, partly from youth 
and modesty, partly from desire to see what- 
ever please God I should see, and partly from 
otLer causes. 

We rode by way of Brendon town, Illford 
Bridge, and Babbrook, to avoid the great 
hill above Lynmouth ; and the day being 
fine and clear again, I laughed in my sleeve 
at Uncle Reuben for all his fine precautions. 
When we arrived at Ley Manor, we were 
shown very civilly into the hall, and re- 
freshed with good ale and collared head, 
and the back of a Christmas pudding. I 
had never been under so fine a roof (unless 
it were of a church) before ; and it pleased 
me greatly to be so kindly entreated by 
high-born folk. But Uncle Reuben was 
vexed a little at being set down side by side 
with a man in a very small way of trade, 
who was come upon some business there, 
and who made bold to drink his health after 
finishing their horns of ale. 

“ Sir,” said Uncle Ben, looking at him, 
“ my health would fare much better if you 
would pay me three pounds and twelve shil- 
lings, which you have owed me these five 
years back ; and now we are met at the Jus- 
tice’s, the opportunity is good, sir.” 

After that we were called to the Justice- 
room, where the Baron himself was sitting, 
with Colonel Hardiug, another Justiciary of 
the King’s peace, to help him. I had seen 
the Baron de Whichehalse before, and was 
not at all afraid of him, having been at 
school with his son, as he knew, and it made 
him very kind to me. And indeed he was 
kind to every body, and all our people spoke 
well of him ; and so much the more because 
we knew that the house was in decadence. 
For the first De Whichehalse had come from 
Holland, where he had been a great noble- 
man, some hundred and fifty years agone. 
Being persecuted for his religion, when the 
Spanish power was every thing, he fled to 
England with all he could save, and bought 
large estates in Devonshire. Since then his 
descendants had intermarried with ancient 
county families — Cot wells, and Marwoods, 
and Walronds, and Welshes of Pylton, and 
Chicbesters of Hall; and several of the la- 
dies brought them large increase of proper- 
ty. And so, about fifty years before the 
time of which I am writing, there were few 
names in the West of England thought more 
of than De Whichehalse. But now they had 
lost a great deal of land, and therefore of 
that which goes wfith land, as surely as fame 
belongs to earth — I mean big reputation. 
How they had lost it none could tell, ex- 
cept that as the first descendants had a man- 
ner of amassing, so the later ones were gift- 
ed with a power of scattering. Whether this 
came of good Devonshire blood opening the 
sluice of Low Country veins, is beyond both 


56 


LORNA DOONE. 


my province and my power to inquire. Any- 
how all people loved this last strain of De 
Whichehalse far more than the name had 
been liked a hundred years agone. 

Hugh de Whichehalse, a white-haired man, 
of very noble presence, with friendly blue 
eyes and a sweet smooth forehead, and aqui- 
line nose quite beautiful (as you might ex- 
pect in a lady of birth), and thin lips curv- 
ing delicately, this gentleman rose as we en- 
tered the room ; while Colonel Harding turn- 
ed on his chair, and struck one spur against 
the other. I am sure that, without know- 
ing aught of either, we must have rever- 
enced more of the two the one who showed 
respect to us. And yet nine gentlemen out 
of ten make this dull mistake when dealing 
with the class below them ! 

Uncle Reuben made his very best scrape, 
and then walked up to the table, trying to 
look as if he did not know himself to be 
wealthier than both the gentlemen put to- 
gether. Of course he was no stranger to 
them, any more than I was ; and, as it proved 
afterward, Colonel Harding owed him a lump 
of money, upon very good security. Of him 
Uncle Reuben took no notice, but addressed 
himself to De Whichehalse. 

The Baron smiled very gently, so soon as 
he learned the cause of this visit, and then 
he replied quite reasonably, 

“ A warrant against the Doones, Master 
Huckaback ? Which of the Doones, so please 
you? and the Christian names, what be 
they ?” 

“My lord, I am not their godfather; and 
most like they never had any. But we all 
know old Sir Ensor’s name, so that may be 
no obstacle.” 

“ Sir Ensor Doone, and his sons — so be it. 
How many sons, Master Huckaback, and 
what is the name of each one ?” 

“ How can I tell you, my lord, even if I 
had known them all as well as my own 
shop-boys ? Nevertheless, there were seven 
of them, and that should be no obstacle.” 

“ A warrant against Sir Ensor Doone, and 
seven sons of Sir Ensor Doone, Christian 
names unknown, and doubted if they have 
any. So far so good, Master Huckaback. I 
have it all down in writing. Sir Ensor him- 
self was there, of course, as you have given 
in evidence — ” 

“No, no, my lord, I never said that ; I 
never said — ” 

“ If he can prove that he was not there, 
you may be indicted for perjury. But as 
for those seven sons of his, of course you 
can swear that they were his sons, and not 
his nephews, or grandchildren, or even no 
Doones at all.” 

“ My lord, I can swear that they were 
Doones. Moreover, I can pay for any mis- 
take I make. Therein need be no obstacle.” 

“ Oh yes, he can pay ; he can pay well 
enough,” said Colonel Harding, shortly. 


“I am heartily glad to hear it,” replied 
the Baron, pleasantly ; “for it proves, after 
all, that this robbery (if robbery there has 
been) was not so very ruinous. Sometimes 
people think they are robbed, and then it is 
very sweet afterward to find that they have 
not been so ; for it adds to their joy in their 
property. Now, are you quite convinced, 
good sir, that these people (if there were 
any) stole, or took, or even borrowed any 
thing at all from you ?” 

“ My lord, do you think that I was drunk?” 

“Not for a moment, Master Huckaback. 
Although excuse might be made for you at 
this time of the year. But how did you 
know that your visitors were of this partic- 
ular family ?” 

“Because it could be nobody else. Be- 
cause, in spite of the fog — ” 

“ Fog !” cried Colonel Harding, sharply. 

“ Fog !” said the Baron, with emphasis. 
“ Ah, that explains the whole affair. To be 
sure, now I remember, the weather has been 
too thick for a man to see the head of his 
own horse. The Doones (if still there be 
any Doones) could never have come abroad ; 
that is as sure as simony. Master Hucka- 
back, for your good sake, I am heartily glad 
that this charge has miscarried. I thorough- 
ly understand it now. The fog explains the 
whole of it.” 

“ Go back, my good fellow,” said Colonel 
Harding ; “ and if the day is clear enough, 
you will find all your things where you left 
them. I know, from my own experience, 
what it is to be caught in an Exmoor fog.” 

Uncle Reuben, by this time, was so put 
out that he hardly knew what he was say- 
ing. 

“ My lord, Sir Colonel, is this your justice ! 
If I go to London myself for it, the King 
shall know how his commission — how a man 
may be robbed, and the justices prove that 
he ought to be hanged at the back of it ; 
that in his good shire of Somerset — ” 

“ Your pardon a moment, good sir,” De 
Whichehalse interrupted him; “but I was 
about (having heard your case) to mention 
what need be an obstacle, and, I fear, would 
prove a fatal one, even if satisfactory proof 
were afforded of a felony. The malfeasance 
(if any) was laid in Somerset ; but we, two 
humble servants of his majesty, are in com- 
mission of his peace for the county of Devon 
only, and therefore could never deal with 
it.” 

“ And why, in the name of God,” cried 
Uncle Reuben, now carried at last fairly be- 
yond himself, “ why could you not say as 
much at first, and save me all this waste of 
time and worry of my temper ? Gentlemen, 
you are all in league ; all of you stick to- 
gether. You think it fair sport for an hon- 
est trader, who makes no shams as you do, 
to be robbed and well-nigh murdered, so 
long as they who did it own the high birth- 


LORNA DOONE. 


57 


right of felony. If a poor sheep-stealer, to 
save his children from dying of starvation, 
had dared to look at a two-month lamb, he 
would swing on the Manor gallows, and all 
of you cry ‘good riddance!’ But now, be- 
cause good birth and had manners — ” Here 
poor Uncle Ben, not being so strong as be- 
fore the Doones had played with him, began 
to foam at the mouth a little, and his tongue 
went into the hollow where his short gray 
whiskers were. 

I forget how we came out of it, only I was 
greatly shocked at bearding of the gentry 
so, and mother scarce could see her way 
when I told her all about it. “ Depend 
upon it you were wrong, John,” was all I 
could get out of her; though what had I 
done but listen, and touch my forelock, when 
called upon ? “ John, you may take my 

word for it, you have not done as you should 
have done. Your father would have been 
shocked to think of going to Baron de 
Whichehalse, and in his own house insulting 
him! And yet it was very brave of you, 
John. Just like you, all over. And (as 
none of the men are here, dear John) I am 
proud of you for doing it.” 

All throughout the homeward road Uncle 
Ben had been very silent, feeling much dis- 
pleased with himself, and still more so with 
other people. But before he went to bed 
that night, he just said to me, “Nephew Jack, 
you have not behaved so badly as the rest 
to me. And because you have no gift of 
talking, I think that I may trust you. Now, 
mark my words, this villain job shall not 
have ending here. I have another card to 
play.” 

“ You mean, sir, I suppose, that you will 
go to the justices of this shire, Squire Maun- 
der, or Sir Richard Blewitt, or — ” 

“Oaf, I mean nothing of the sort; they 
would only make a laughing-stock, as those 
Devonshire people did, of me. No, I will 
go to the King himself, or a man who is big- 
ger thau the King, and to whom I have al- 
ready access. I will not tell thee his name 
at present, only if thou art brought before 
him, never wilt thou forget it.” That was 
true enough, by-the-bye, as I discovered af- 
terward, for the man he meaut was Judge 
Jeffreys. 

“And when are you likely to see him, 
sir ?” 

“ May be in the spring, may be not until 
summer, for I can not go to London on pur- 
pose, but when my business takes me there. 
Only remember my words, Jack, and when 
you see the man I mean, look straight at 
him, and tell no lie. He will make some 
of your zany squires shake in their shoes, I 
reckon. Now, I have been in this lonely 
hole far longer than I intended, by reason 
of this outrage ; yet I will stay here one day 
more upon a certain condition.” 

“ Upon what condition, Uncle Ben ? I 


grieve that you find it so lonely. We will 
have Farmer Nicholas up again, and the 
singers, and — ” 

“ The fashionable milkmaids. I thank 
you, let me be. The wenches are too loud 
for me. Your Nanny is enough. Nanny is 
a good child, and she shall come and visit 
me.” Uncle Reuben would always call her 
“Nanny;” he said that “Annie” was too 
fine and Frenchified for us. “ But my con- 
dition is this, Jack — that you shall guide me 
to-morrow, without a word to any one, to a 
place where I may well descry the dwelling 
of these scoundrel Doones, and learn the best 
way to get at them, when the time shall 
come. Can you do this for me ? I will pay 
you well, boy.” 

I promised very readily to do my best to 
serve him, but, of course, would take no 
money for it, not being so poor as that 
came to. Accordingly, on the day following 
I managed to set the men at work on the 
other side of the farm, especially that in- 
quisitive and busybody John Fry, who would 
pry out almost any thing for the pleasure 
of telling his wife; and then, with Uncle 
Reuben mounted on my ancient Peggy, I 
made foot for the westward, directly after 
breakfast. Uncle Ben refused to go unless 
I would take a loaded gun, aud indeed it 
was always wise to do so in those days of 
turbulence ; aud none the less because of late 
more than usual of our sheep had left their 
skins behind them. This, as I need hardly 
say, was not to be charged to the appetite 
of the Doones, for they always said that they 
were not butchers (although upon that sub- 
ject might well be two opinions) ; and their 
practice was to make the shepherds kill and 
skin, and quarter for them, and sometimes 
carry to the Doone-gate the prime among the 
fatlings, for fear of any bruising, which spoils 
the look at table. But the worst of it was 
that ignorant folk, unaware of their fastidi- 
ousness, scored to them the sheep they lost 
by lower-born marauders, and so were afraid 
to speak of it ; and the issue of this error 
was that a farmer with five or six hundred 
sheep could never command, on his wedding- 
day, a prime saddle of mutton for dinner. 

To return now to my Uncle Ben — aud in- 
deed he would not let me go more than three 
land-yards from him — there was very little 
said between us along the lane and across 
the hill, although the day was pleasant. I 
could see that he was half amiss with his 
mind about the business, and not so full of 
security as an elderly man should keep him- 
self. Therefore, out I spake, and said — 

“Uncle Reuben, have no fear. I know 
every inch of the ground, sir, aud there is 
no danger nigh us.” 

“ Fear, boy! Who ever thought of fear? 
’Tis the last thing would come across me. 
Pretty things those primroses.” 

At once I thought of Lorna Doone, the 


38 


LORNA DOONE. 


little maid of six years back, and how my 
fancy went with her. Could Lorna ever 
think of me ? Was I not a lout gone by, 
only fit for loach-sticking ? Had I ever seen 
a face fit to think of near her ? The sud- 
den flash, the quickness, the bright desire to 
know one’s heart, and not withhold her own 
from it, the soft withdrawal of rich eyes, the 
longing to love somebody, any body, any 
thing, not imbrued with wickedness — 

My uncle interrupted me, misliking so 
much silence now, with the naked woods 
falling over us. For we were come to Bag- 
worthy forest, the blackest and the loneliest 
place of all that keep the sun out. Even 
now in winter-time, with most of the wood 
unriddled, and the rest of it pinched brown, 
it hung around us like a cloak, containing 
little comfort. I kept quite close to Peggy’s 
head, and Peggy kept quite close to me, and 
pricked her ears at every thing. However, 
we saw nothing there except a few old owls 
and hawks, aud a magpie sitting all alone, 
until we came to the bank of the hill, where 
the pony could not climb it. Uncle Ben 
was very loath to get off, because the pony 
seemed company, and he thought he could 
gallop away on her, if the worst came to 
the worst; but I persuaded him that now 
he must go to the end of it. Therefore we 
made Peggy fast, in a place where we could 
find her, aud speaking cheerfully as if there 
was nothing to be afraid of, he took his staff, 
and I my gun, to climb the thick ascent. 

There was now no path of any kind ; 
which added to our courage all it lessened 
of our comfort, because it proved that the 
robbers were not in the habit of passing 
there. And we knew that we could not go 
astray so long as we breasted the hill before 
us, inasmuch as it formed the rampart or 
side-fence of Glen Doone. But in truth I 
used the right word there for the manner of 
our ascent, for the ground came forth so 
steep against us, and withal so woody, that 
to make any way we must throw ourselves 
forward, and labor as at a breast -plow. 
Rough and loamy rungs of oak-root bulged 
here and there above their heads ; briers 
needs must speak with us, using more of 
tooth than tongue ; and sometimes bulks of 
rugged stone, like great sheep, stood across 
us. At last, though very loath to do it, I was 
forced to leave my gun behind, because I 
required one hand to drag myself up the 
difficulty, and one to help Uncle Reuben. 
And so at last we gained the top, and looked 
forth the edge of the forest, where the ground 
was A r ery stony and like the crest of a quarry ; 
and no more trees between us and the brink 
of cliff below, three hundred yards below it 
might be, all strong slope and gliddery. 
And now for the first time I was amazed at 
the appearance of the Doones’ stronghold, 
and understood its nature. For when I had 
been even in the valley, aud climbed the 


cliffs to escape from it, about seven years 
agone, I was no more than a stripling boy, 
noting little, as boys do, except for their 
present purpose, and even that soon done 
with. But now, what with the fame of the 
Doones, and my own recollections, and Un- 
cle Ben’s insistence, all my attention was 
called forth, and the end was simple aston- 
ishment. 

The chine of highland whereon we stood 
curved to the right and left of us, keeping 
about the same elevation, and crowned with 
trees and brush-wood. At about half a mile 
in front of us, but looking as if we could 
throw a stone to strike any man upon it, 
another crest just like our own bowed 
around to meet it ; but failed by reason of 
two narrow clefts, of which we could only 
see the brink. One of these clefts was the 
Doone-gate, with a portcullis of rock above 
it, and the other was the chasm by which I 
had once made entrance. Betwixt them, 
where the hills fell back as in a perfect oval, 
traversed by the winding water, lay a bright 
green valley, rimmed with sheer black rock, 
and seeming to have sunken bodily from the 
bleak, rough heights above. It looked as if 
no frost could enter, neither winds go ruf- 
fling: only spring, and hope, and comfort 
breathe to one another. Even now the rays 
of sunshine dwelt and fell back on one an- 
other, whenever the clouds lifted ; and the 
pale blue glimpse of the growing day seem- 
ed to find young encouragement. 

But for all that, Uncle Reuben was none 
the worse nor better. He looked down into 
Glen Doone first and sniffed as if he were 
smelling it, like a sample of goods from a 
wholesale house ; and then he looked at the 
hills over yonder, and then he stared at me. 

“ See what a pack of fools they be ?” 

“ Of course I do, Uncle Ben. 1 All rogues 
are fools,’ was my first copy, beginning of 
the alphabet.” 

11 Pack of stuff, lad ; though true enough, 
and very good for young people. But see 
you not how this great Doone valley may be 
taken in half an hour f” 

u Yes, to be sure I do, uncle ; if they like 
to give it up, I mean.” 

“ Three culverins on yonder hill, and three 
on the top of this one, and we have them 
under a pestle. Ah, I have seen the wars, 
my lad, from Keinton up to Naseby ; and I 
might have been a general now, if they had 
taken my advice — ” 

But I was not attending to him, being 
drawn away on a sudden by a sight which 
never struck the sharp eyes of our general. 
For I had long ago descried that little open- 
ing in the cliff through which I made my 
exit, as before related, on the other side of 
the valley. No bigger than a rabbit-hole it 
seemed from where we stood ; and yet of all 
the scene before me, that (from my remem- 
brance, perhaps) had the most attraction. 


LORNA DOONE. 


59 


Now gazing at it with full thought of all 
that it had cost me, I saw a little figure 
oome, and pause, and pass into it. Some- 
thing very light and white, nimble, smooth, 
and elegant, gone almost before I knew that 
any one had been there ; and yet my heart 
came to my ribs, and all my blood was in 
my face, and pride within me fought with 
shame, aud vauity with self-contempt ; for 
though seven years were gone, and I from 
my boyhood come to manhood, and all must 
have forgotten me, and I had half forgot- 
ten ; at that moment, once for all, I felt that 
I was face to face with fate (however poor it 
may be), weal or woe, in Lorna Doone. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

LORNA GROWING FORMIDABLE. 

Having reconnoitred thus the position of 
the enemy, Master Huckaback, on the home- 
ward road, cross-examined me in a manner 
not at all desirable ; for he had noted my 
confusion and eager gaze at something un- 
seen by him in the valley, and thereupon he 
made up his mind to know every thing about 
it. In this, however, he partly failed ; for, 
although I was no hand at fence, and would 
not tell him a falsehood, I managed so to 
hold my peace that he put himself upon the 
wrong track, and continued thereon with 
many vaunts of his shrewdness and experi- 
ence, and some chuckles at my simplicity. 
Thus much, however, he learned aright, that 
I had been in the Doone valley several years 
before, and might be brought, upon strong 
inducement, to venture there again. But 
as to the mode of my getting in, the things 
I saw, and my thoughts upon them, he not 
only failed to learn the truth, but certified 
himself into an obstinacy of error from which 
no after-knowledge was able to deliver him. 
And this he did, not only because I happened 
to say very little, but forasmuch as he disbe- 
lieved half of the truth I told him, through 
his own too great sagacity. 

Upon one point, however, he succeeded 
more easily than he expected, viz., in mak- 
ing me promise to visit the place again, as 
soon as occasion offered, and to hold my own 
council about it. But I could not help smil- 
ing at one thing, that, according to his point 
of view, my own counsel meant my own and 
Master Reuben Huckaback's. 

Now he being gone, as he went next day 
to his favorite town of Dulverton, and leav- 
ing behind him shadowy promise of the 
mountains he would do for me, my spirit 
began to burn and pant for something to go 
on with ; and nothing showed a braver hope 
of movement and adventure than a lonely 
visit to Glen Doone, by way of the perilous 
passage discovered in my boyhood. There- 
fore I waited for nothing more than the 


slow arrival of new small-clothes made by 
a good tailor at Porlock, for I was wishful 
to look my best ; and when they were come 
and approved, I started, regardless of the ex- 
pense, and forgetting (like a fool) how bad- 
ly they would take the water. 

What with urging of the tailor, and my 
own misgivings, the time was now come 
round again to the liigh-day of St. Valentine, 
when all our maids were full of lovers, and 
all the lads looked foolish. And none of 
them more sheepish or innocent than I my- 
self, albeit twenty - one years old, and not 
afraid of men much, but terrified of women, 
at least if they were comely. And what of 
all things scared me most was the thought 
of my own size, and knowledge of my 
strength, which came, like knots, upon me 
daily. In honest truth I tell this thing 
(which often since hath puzzled me, when 
I came to mix with men more), I was to 
that degree ashamed of my thickness aud 
my stature, in the presence of a woman, that 
I would not put a trunk of wood on the fire 
in the kitchen, but let Annie scold me well, 
with a smile to follow, and with her own 
plump hands lift up a little log and fuel it. 
Many a time I longed to be no bigger than 
John Fry was; whom now (when insolent) 
I took with my left hand by the waist-stuff 
and set him on my hat, and gave him lit- 
tle chance to tread it, until he spoke of his 
family, and requested to come down again. 

Now, taking for good omen this, that I 
was a seven-year Valentine, though much 
too big for a Cupidon, I chose a seven-foot 
staff of ash, and fixed a loach-fork in it, to 
look as I had looked before ; and leaving 
word upon matters of business, out of the 
backdoor I went, and so through the little 
orchard, and down the brawling Lynn-brook. 
Not being now so much afraid, I struck across 
the thicket land between the meeting wa- 
ters, and came upon the Bagworthy stream 
near the great black whirlpool. Nothing 
amazed me so much as to find how shallow 
the stream now looked to me, although the 
pool was still as black and greedy as it used 
to be. And still the great rocky slide was 
dark and difficult to climb ; though the wa- 
ter, which once had taken my knees, was 
satisfied now with my ankles. After some 
labor, I reached the top ; and halted to look 
about me well, before trusting to broad day- 
light. 

The winter (as I said before) had been a 
very mild one ; and now the spring was to- 
ward so that bank and bush were touched 
with it. The valley into which I gazed was 
fair with early promise, having shelter from 
the wind, and taking all the sunshine. The 
willow- bushes over the stream hung as if 
they were angling with tasseled floats of 
gold and silver, bursting like a bean-pod. 
Between them came the water laughing, 
like a maid at her own dancing, and spread 


60 


LORNA DOONE. 


witli that young blue which never lives be- 
yond the April. And on either bank the 
meadow ruffled as the breeze came by, open- 
ing (through new tufts of green) daisy-bud 
or celandine, or a shy glimpse now and then 
of the love-lorn primrose. 

Though I am so blank of wit, or perhaps 
for that same reason, these little things 
come and dwell with me, and I am happy 
about them, and long for nothing better. 
I feel with every blade of grass, as if it had 
a history ; and make a child of every bud, 
as though it knew and loved me. And be- 
ing so, they seem to tell me of my own de- 
lusions, how I am no more than they, except 
in self-importance. 

While I was forgetting much of many 
things that harm one, and letting of my 
thoughts go wild to sounds and sights of 
nature, a sweeter note than thrush or ouzel 
ever wooed a mate in floated on the valley 
breeze at the quiet turn of sundown. The 
words were of an ancient song, fit to cry or 
laugh at. 

“ Love, an if there be one, 

Come my love to be, 

My love is for the one 
Loving unto me. 

“Not for me the show, love, 

Of a gilded bliss ; 

Only thou must know, love, 

What my value is. 

“ If in all the earth, love, 

Thon hast none but me, 

This shall be my worth, love, 

To be cheap to thee. 

“ But if so thou ever 
Strivest to be free, 

’Twill be my endeavor 
To be dear to thee. 

“Hence may I ensue, love, 

All a woman’s due ; 

Comforting my true-love 
With a love as true.” 

All this I took in with great eagerness, 
not for the sake of the meaning (which is 
no doubt an allegory), but for the power and 
richness and softness of the singing, which 
seemed to me better than we ever had even 
in Oare church. But all the time I kept 
myself in a black niche of the rock, where 
the fall of the water began, lest the sweet 
singer (espying me) should be alarmed, and 
flee away. But presently I ventured to look 
forth where a bush was, and then I beheld 
the loveliest sight — one glimpse of which 
was enough to make me kneel in the coldest 
water. 

By the side of the stream she was coming 
to me, even among the primroses, as if she 
loved them all; and every flower looked 
the brighter, as her eyes were on them. I 
could not see what her face was, my heart 
so awoke and trembled ; only that her hair 
was flowing from a wreath of white violets, 
and the grace of her coming was like the 
appearance of the first wind-flower. The 


I pale gleam over the western cliffs threw a 
i shadow of light behind her, as if the sun 
| were lingering. Never do I see that light 
from the closing of the west, even in these 
my aged days, without thinking of her. Ah 
me, if it comes to that, what do I see of earth 
or heaven without thinking of her f 

The tremulous thrill of her song was hang- 
ing on her open lips ; and she glanced around, 
as if the birds were accustomed to make an- 
swer. To me it was a thing of terror to be- 
hold such beauty, and feel myself the while 
to be so very low and common. But scarce- 
ly knowing what I did, as if a rope were 
drawing me, I came from the dark mouth 
of the chasm, and stood, afraid to look at 
her. 

She was turning to fly, not knowing me, 
and frightened, perhaps, at my stature, 
when I fell on the grass (as I fell before 
her seven years agone that day), and I just 
said, “ Lorna Doone !” 

She knew me at once, from my manner 
and ways, and a smile broke through her 
trembling, as sunshine comes through as- 
pen-leaves ; and being so clever, she saw of 
course that she needed not to fear me. 

“ Oh, indeed !” she cried, with a feint of 
anger (because she had shown her coward- 
ice, and yet in her heart she was laughing) ; 
“ oh, if you please, who are you, sir, and how 
do you know my name ?” 

“ I am John Kidd,” I answered ; “ the boy 
who gave you those beautiful fish, when you 
were only a little thing, seven years ago to- 
day.” 

“Yes, the poor boy who was frightened 
so, and obliged to hide here in the water.” 

“And do you remember how kind you 
were, and saved my life by your quickness, 
and went away riding upon a great man’s 
shoulder, as if you had never seen me, and 
yet looked back through the willow-trees ?” 

“ Oh yes, I remember every thing ; be- 
cause it was so rare to see any . except — I 
mean because I happen to remember. But 
you seem not to remember, sir, how perilous 
this place is.” 

For she had kept her eyes upon me ; large 
eyes of a softness, a brightness, and a dig- 
nity which made me feel as if I must for- 
ever love and yet forever know myself un- 
worthy — unless themselves should fill with 
love, which is the spring of all things. And 
so I could not answer her, but was over- 
come with thinking and feeling and confu- 
sion. Neither could I look again ; only 
waited for the melody which made every 
word like a poem to me — the melody of her 
voice. But she had not the least idea of 
what was going on with me, any more than 
I myself had. 

“ I think, Master Ridd, you can not know,” 
she said, with her eyes taken from me, “ what 
the dangers of this place are, and the nature 
of the people.” 


LORNA DOONE. 


61 


“ Yes, I know enough of that ; and I am 
frightened greatly, all the time, when I do 
not look at you.” 

She was too young to answer me in the 
style some maidens would have used; the 
manner, I mean, which now we call from a 
foreign word “coquettish.” And more than 
that, she was trembling from real fear of 
violence, lest strong hands might be laid on 
me, and a miserable end of it. And, to tell 
the truth, I grew afraid — perhaps from a 
kind of sympathy, and because I knew that 
evil comes more readily than good to us. 

Therefore, without more ado, or taking 
any advantage — although I would have been 
glad at heart, if needs had been, to kiss her 
(without any thought of rudeness)— it struck 
me that I had better go, and have no more 
to say to her until next time of coming. So 
would she look the more for me and think 
the more about me, and not grow weary of 
my words and the want of change there is 
in me. For, of course, I knew what a churl 
I was compared to her birth and appear- 
ance ; but meanwhile I might improve my- 
self and learn a musical instrument. “ The 
wind hath a draw after flying straw,” is a 
saying we have in Devonshire, made, per- 
adventure, by somebody who had seen the 
ways of women. 

“Mistress Lorna, I will depart” — mark 
you, I thought that a powerful word — “in 
fear of causing disquiet. If auy rogue shot 
me it would grieve you ; I make bold to say 
it ; and it would be the death of mother. 
Few mothers have such a son as me. Try to 
think of me now and then, and I will bring 
you some new-laid eggs, for our young blue 
hen is beginning.” 

“ I thank you heartily,” said Lorna ; “ but 
you need not come to see me. You can put 
them in my little bower, where I am almost 
always — I mean whither daily I repair to 
read and to be away from them.” 

“ Only show me where it is. Thrice a day 
I will come and stop — ” 

“Nay, Master Ridd, I would never show 
thee — never, because of peril — only that so 
happens it thou hast found the way already.” 

And she smiled with a light that made me 
care to cry out for no other way, except to 
her dear heart. But only to myself I cried 
for any thing at all, having enough of man 
in me to be bashful with young maidens. So 
I touched her white hand softly when she 
gave it to me, and (fancying that she had 
sighed) was touched at heart about it, and 
resolved to yield her all my goods, although 
my mother was living ; and then grew an- 
gry with myself (for a mile or more of walk- 
ing) to think she would condescend so ; and 
then, for the rest of the homeward road, was 
mad with every man in the world who would 
dare to think of having her. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

JOHN IS CLEARLY BEWITCHED. 

To forget one’s luck of life, to forget the 
cark of care and withering of young fingers ; 
not to feel, or not be moved by, all the change 
of thought and heart, from large young heat 
to the sinewy lines and dry bones of old age 
— this is what I have to do ere ever I can 
make you know (even as a dream is known) 
how I loved my Lorna. I myself can never 
know ; never can conceive, or treat it as a 
thing of reason ; never can behold myself 
dwelling in the midst of it, and think that 
this was I ; neither can I wander far from 
perpetual thought of it. Perhaps I have 
two farrows of pigs ready for the chapman ; 
perhaps I have ten stones of wool waiting 
for the factor. It is all the same: I look 
at both, and what I say to myself is this : 
“ Which would Lorna choose of them ?” Of 
course, I am a fool for this ; any mau may 
call me so, and I will not quarrel with him, 
unless he guess my secret. Of course, I fetch 
my wit, if it be worth the fetching, back 
again to business. But there my heart is 
and must be ; and all who like to try can 
cheat me, except upon parish matters. 

That week I could do little more than 
dream and dream and rove about, seeking 
by perpetual change to find the way back 
to myself. I cared not for the people round 
me, neither took delight in victuals ; but 
made believe to eat and drink, and blushed 
at any questions. And being called the 
master now, head-farmer, and chief yeoman, 
it irked me much that any one should take 
advantage of me ; yet every body did so as 
soon as ever it was known that my wits 
were gone moon-raking. For that was the 
way they looked at it, not being able to 
comprehend the greatness and the loftiness. 
Neither do I blame them much; for the 
wisest thing is to laugh at people when we 
can not understand them. I, for my part, 
took no notice ; but in my heart despised 
them as beings of a lesser nature who never 
had seen Lorna. Yet I was vexed, and rub- 
bed myself, when John Fry spread all over 
the farm, and even at the shoeing-forge, that 
a mad dog had come and bitten me from the 
other side of Molland. 

This seems little to me now; and so it 
might to any one ; but at the time it work- 
ed me up to a fever of indignity. To make 
a mad dog of Lorna, to compare all my im- 
aginings (which were strange, I do assure 
you — the faculty not being apt to work), 
to count the raising of my soul no more than 
hydrophobia ! All this acted ou me so, that 
I gave John Fry the soundest thrashing that 
ever a sheaf of good corn deserved, or a bun- 
dle of tares was blessed with. Afterward 
he went home, too tired to tell his wife the 
meaning of it ; but it proved of service to both 
of them, and an example for their children. 


62 


LORNA DOONE. 


Now the climate of this country is — so far 
as I can make of it — to throw no man into 
extremes ; and if he throw himself so far, to 
pluck him hack by change of weather and 
the need of looking after things. Lest we 
should be like the Southerns, for whom the 
sky does every thing, and men sit under a 
wall and watch both food and fruit come 
beckoning. Their sky is a mother to them ; 
but ours a good stepmother to us — fearing to 
hurt by indulgence, and knowing that sever- 
ity and change of mood are wholesome. 

The spring being now too forward, a check 
to it was needful ; and in the early part of 
March there came a change of weather. All 
the young growth was arrested by a dry 
wind from the east, which made both face 
and fingers burn when a man was doing 
ditching. The lilacs and the woodbines, 
just crowding forth in little tufts, close ker- 
neling their blossom, were ruffled back, like 
a sleeve turned up, and nicked with brown 
at the corners. In the hedges any man, un- 
less lii£ eyes were very dull, could see the 
mischief doing. The russet of the young 
elm-bloom was fain to be in its scale again ; 
but having pushed forth, there must be, and 
turn to a tawny color. The hangers of the 
hazel, too, having shed their dust to make 
the nuts, did not spread their little combs 
and dry them, as they ought to do; but 
shriveled at the base and fell, as if a knife 
had cut them. And more than all to notice 
was (at least about the hedges) the shud- 
dering of every thing and the shivering 
sound among them toward the feeble sun ; 
such as we make to a poor fire-place when 
several doors are open. Sometimes I put 
my face to warm against the soft, rough 
maple-stem, which feels like the foot of a 
red deer; but the pitiless east wind came 
through all, and took and shook the caved 
hedge aback till its knees were knocking to- 
gether, and nothing could be shelter. Then 
would any one having blood, and trying to 
keep at home with it, run to a sturdy tree 
and hope to eat his food behind it, and look 
for a little sun to come and warm his feet 
in the shelter. And if it did he might strike 
his breast, and try to think he was warmer. 

But when a man came home at night, af- 
ter long day’s labor, knowing that the days 
increased, and so his care should multiply ; 
still he found enough of light to show him 
what the day had done against him in his 
garden. Every ridge of new-turned earth 
looked like an old man’s muscles, honey- 
combed, and standing out void of spring, 
and powdery. Every plant that had re- 
joiced in passing such a winter now was 
cowering, turned away, unfit to meet the 
consequence. Flowing sap had stopped its 
course ; fluted lines showed want of food ; 
and if you pinched the topmost spray, there 
was no rebound or firmness. 

Wd think a good deal, in a quiet way — 


when people ask us about them — of some^ 
fine, upstanding pear-trees, grafted by my 
grandfather, who had been very greatly re- 
spected. And he got those grafts by shel- 
tering a poor Italian soldier, in the time of 
James the First, a man who never could do 
enough to show his grateful memories. How 
he came to our place is a very difficult sto- 
ry which I never understood rightly, hav- 
ing heard it from my mother. At any rate, 
there the pear-trees were, and there they 
are to this very day ; and I wish every one 
could taste their fruit, old as they are, and 
rugged. 

Now these fine trees had taken advantage 
of the west winds, and the moisture, and the 
promise of the spring-time, so as to fill the 
tips of the spray-wood and the rowels all 
up the branches with a crowd of eager blos- 
som. Not that they were yet in bloom, nor 
even showing whiteness, only that some of 
the cones were opening at the side of the cap 
which pinched them ; and there you might 
count, perhaps, a dozen knobs, like very lit- 
tle buttons, but grooved, and lined, and hud- 
dling close, to make room for one another. 
And among these buds were gray -green 
blades, scarce bigger than a hair almost, yet 
curving so as if their purpose was to shield 
the blossom. 

Other of the spur-points, standing on the 
older wood, where the sap was not so eager, 
had not burst their tunic yet, but were flay- 
ed and flaked with light, casting off the busk 
of brown in three-cornered patches, as I have 
seen a Scotchman’s plaid, or as his leg shows 
through it. These buds, at a distance, look- 
ed as if the sky had been raining cream 
upon them. 

Now all this fair delight to the eyes, and 
good promise to the palate, was marred and 
baffled by the wind and cutting of the night- 
frosts. The opening cones were struck with 
brown, in between the button buds, and on 
the scapes that shielded them; while the 
foot part of the cover hung like rags, peeled 
back and quivering. And there the little 
stalk of each, which might have been a pear, 
God willing, had a ring around its base, and 
sought a chance to drop and die. The oth- 
ers, which had not opened comb, but only 
prepared to do it, were a little better off,, 
but still very brown and unked, and shriv- 
eling in doubt of health, and neither peart 
nor lusty. 

Now this I have not told because I know 
the way to do it, for that I do not, neither 
yet have seen a man who did know. It is 
wonderful how we look at things, and nev- 
er think to notice them ; and I am as bad 
as any body, unless the thing to be observed 
is a dog, or a horse, or a maiden. And the 
last of those three I look at, somehow, with- 
out knowing that I take notice, and greatly 
afraid to do it ; only I knew afterward (when 
the time of life was in me), not, indeed, what 


LORNA DOONE. 


63 


the maiden was like, hut how she differed 
from others. 

Yet I have spoken about the spring, and 
the failure of fair promise, because I took it 
to my heart as token of what would come 
to me in the budding of my years and hope. 
And even then, being much possessed, aud 
full of a foolish melancholy, I felt a sad de- 
light at being doomed to blight and loneli- 
ness ; not but that I managed still (when 
mother was urgent upon me) to eat my share 
of victuals, and cuff a man for laziness, and 
see that a plowshare made no leaps, and 
sleep of a night without dreaming. And my 
mother half-believing, in her fondness and 
affection, that what the parish said was true 
about a mad dog having bitten me, and yet 
arguing that it must be false (because God 
would have prevented him), my mother gave 
me little rest when I was in the room with 
her. Not that she worried me with ques- 
tions, nor openly regarded me with any un- 
usual meaning, but that I knew she was 
watching slyly whenever I took a spoon 
up ; and every hour or so she managed to 
place a pan of water by me, quite as if by 
accident, and sometimes even to spill a lit- 
tle upon my shoe or coat-sleeve. But Bet- 
ty Muxworthy was worst ; for, having no 
fear about my health, she made a villainous 
joke of it, and used to rush into the kitchen 
barking like a dog, and panting, exclaiming 
that I had bitten her, and justice she would 
have on me, if it cost her a twelvemonth’s 
wages. And she always took care to do 
this thing just when I had crossed my legs 
in the corner after supper, and leaned my 
head against the oven, to begin to think of 
Lorna. 

However, in all things there is comfort, 
if we do not look too hard for it ; and now I 
had much satisfaction, in my uncouth state, 
from laboring, by the hour together, at the 
hedging and the ditching, meeting the bit- 
ter wind face to face, feeling my strength in- 
crease, and hoping that some one would be 
proud of it. In the rustling rush of every 
gust, in the graceful bend of every tree, even 
in the “ Lords and Ladies,” clumped in the 
scoops of the hedgerow, and most of all in 
the soft primrose, wrung by the wind, but 
stealing back, and smiling when the wrath 
was past — in all of these, and many others, 
there was aching ecstasy, delicious pang of 
Lorna. 

But however cold the weather was, and 
however hard the wind blew, one thing 
(more than all the rest) worried and per- 
plexed me. This was, that I could not set- 
tle, turn and twist it as I might, how soon I 
ought to go again upon a visit to Glen Doone. 
For I liked not at all the falseness of it (al- 
beit against murderers), the creeping out of 
sight, and hiding, and feeling as a spy might. 
And even more than this, I feared how Lorna 
might regard it; whether I might seem to 


her a prone and blunt intruder, a country 
youth not skilled in manners, as among the 
quality, even when they rob us. For I was 
not sure myself but that it might be very 
bad manners to go again too early without 
an invitation ; and my hands and face were 
chapped so badly by the bitter wind, that 
Lorna might count them unsightly things, 
and wish to see no more of them. 

However, I could not bring myself to con- 
sult any one upon this point, at least in our 
own neighborhood, nor even to speak of it 
near home. But the east wind holding 
through the month, my hands and face 
growing worse and worse, aud it having oc- 
curred to me by this time that possibly Lor- 
na might have chaps, if she came abroad at 
all, and so might like to talk about them and 
show her little hands to me, I resolved to 
take another opinion, so far as might be upon 
this matter, without disclosing the circum- 
stances. 

Now the wisest person in all our parts was 
reckoned to be a certain wise woman, well 
known all over Exmoor by the name of 
“Mother Melldrum.” Her real name was 
“ Maple Durham,” as I learned long after- 
ward ; and she came of an ancient family, 
but neither of Devon nor Somerset. Never- 
theless she was quite at home with our prop- 
er modes of divination; and knowing that 
we liked them best — as each man does his 
own religion — she would always practice 
them for the people of the country. And all 
the while she would let us know that she 
kept a higher and nobler mode for those who 
looked down upon this one, not having been 
bred and born to it. 

Mother Melldrum had two houses, or rath- 
er she had none at all, but two homes where- 
in to find her, according to the time of year. 
In summer she lived in a pleasant cave, fa- 
cing the cool side of the hill, far inland near 
Hawkridge, and close above “ Tarr-steps,” 
a wonderful crossing of Barle river, made 
(as every body knows) by Satan, for a wa- 
ger. But throughout the winter she found 
sea-air agreeable, and a place where things 
could be had on credit, and more occasion 
of talking. Not but what she could have 
credit (for every one was afraid of her) in 
the neighborhood of Tarr-steps ; only there 
was no one handy owning things worth tak- 
ing. 

Therefore, at the fall of the leaf, when the 
woods grew damp and irksome, the wise 
woman always set her face to the warmer 
cliffs of the Channel; where shelter was, 
and dry fern bedding, and folk to be seen in 
the distance, from a bank upon which the 
sun shone. And there, as I knew from our 
John Fry (who had been to her about rheu- 
matism, and sheep possessed with an evil 
spirit, and warts on the hand of his son, 
young John), any one who chose might find 
her toward the close of a winter day, ^ath- 


64 


LORNA DOONE. 


«ring sticks and brown fern for fuel, and 
talking to herself the while, in a hollow 
stretch behind the cliffs ; which foreign- 
ers, who come and go without seeing much 
of Exmoor, have called the “ Valley of 
Rocks.” 

This valley, or “ goyal,” as we term it, 
being small for a valley, lies to the west of 
Liuton, about a mile from the town perhaps, 
and away toward Ley Manor. Our home- 
folk always call it the a Danes,” or the 
“ Denes ;” which is no more, they tell me, 
than a hollow place, even as the word “ den ” 
is. However, let that pass, for I know very 
little about it ; but the place itself is a pret- 
ty one; though nothing to frighten any 
body, unless he hath lived in a gallipot. It 
is a green rough-sided hollow, bending at 
the middle, touched with stone at either 
crest, and dotted here and there with slabs 
in and out the brambles. On the right hand 
is an upward crag, called by some the “ Cas- 
tle,” easy enough to scale, and giving great 
view of the Channel. Facing this from the 
inland side and the elbow of the valley, a 
queer old idle of rock arises, bold behind one 
another, and quite enough to affright a man, 
if it only were ten times larger. This is 
called the “ Devil’s Cheese -ring,” or the 
“Devil’s Cheese - knife,” which mean the 
same thing, as our fathers were used to eat 
their cheese from a scoop ; and perhaps in 
old time the upmost rock (which has fallen 
away since I knew it) was like to such an 
implement, if Satan eat cheese untoasted. 

But all the middle of this valley was a 
place to rest in ; to sit and think that trou- 
bles were not, if we would not make them. 
To know the sea, outside the hills, but nev- 
er to behold it ; only by the sound of waves 
to pity sailors laboring. Then to watch the 
sheltered sun, coming warmly round the 
turn, like a guest expected, full of gentle 
glow and gladness, casting shadow far away 
as a thing to hug itself, and awakening life 
from dew, and hope from every spreading 
bud. And then to fall asleep, and dream 
that the fern was all asparagus. 

Alas! I was too young in those days 
much to care for creature comforts, or to 
■let pure palate have things that would im- 
prove it. Any thing went down with me, 
as it does with most of us. Too late we 
know the good from bad: the knowledge 
is no pleasure then ; being memory’s med- 
icine rather than the wine of hope. 

Now Mother Melldrum kept her winter in 
this vale of rocks, sheltering from the wind 
and rain within the Devil’s Cheese -ring, 
w r hich added greatly to her fame, because 
all else, for miles around, were afraid to go 
near it after dark, or even on a gloomy day. 
Under eaves of lichened rock she had a wind- 
ing passage, which none that ever I knew of 
durst enter but herself. And to this place I 
went to seek her, in spite of all misgivings, 


upon a Sunday in Lenten season, when the 
sheep were folded. 

Our parson (as if he had known my in- 
tent) had preached a beautiful sermon about 
the Witch of Endor, and the perils of them 
that meddle wantonly with the unseen Pow- 
ers ; and therein he referred especially to the 
strange noise in our neighborhood, and up- 
braided us for want of faith, and many oth- 
er backslidiugs. We listened to him very 
earnestly, for we like to hear from our bet- 
ters about things that are beyond us, and to 
be roused up now and then, like sheep with 
a good dog after them, who can pull some 
wool without biting. Nevertheless we could 
not see how our want of faith could have 
n^ade that noise, especially at night-time; 
notwithstanding which we believed it, and 
hoped to do a little better. 

And so we all came home from church ; 
and most of the people dined with us, as 
they always do on Sundays, because of the 
distance to go home, with only words inside 
them. The parson, who always sat next to 
mother, was afraid that he might have vex- 
ed us, and would not have the best piece of 
meat, according to his custom. But soon 
we put him at his ease, and showed him we 
were proud of him; and then he made no 
more to do, but accepted the best of the 
sirloin. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

WITCHERY LEADS TO WITCHCRAFT. 

Although well nigh the end of March, 
the wind blew wild and piercing, as I went 
on foot that afternoon to Mother Melldrum’s 
dwelling. It was safer not to take a horse, 
lest (if any thing vexed her) she should put 
a spell upon him, as had been done to Farm- 
er Snowe’s stable by the wise woman of 
Simonsbath. 

The sun was low on the edge of the hills 
by the time I entered the valley, for I could 
not leave home till the cattle were tended, 
and the distance was seven miles or more. 
The shadows of rocks fell far and deep, and 
the brown dead fern was fluttering, and 
brambles with their sere leaves hanging, 
swayed their tatters to and fro, with a red 
look on them. In patches underneath the 
crags a few wild goats were browsing ; then 
they tossed their horns, and fled, and leaped 
on ledges, and stared at me. Moreover, the 
sound of the sea came up, and went the 
leugth of the valley, and there it lapped on 
a butt of rocks, and murmured like a shell. 

Taking things one with another, and feel- 
ing all the lonesomeness, and having no 
stick with me, I was much inclined to go 
briskly back, and come at a better season. 
And when I beheld a tall gray shape of 
something or another, moving at the lower 
end of the valley, where the shade was, it 


LORNA 

■gave me such a stroke of fear, after many 
•others, that my thumb, which lay in moth- 
er’s Bible (brought in my big pocket for the 
sake of safety), shook so much that it came 
out, and I could not get it in again. “ This 
serves me right,” I said to myself, “ for tam- 
pering with Beelzebub. Oh that I had list- 
ened to Parson !” 

And thereupon I struck aside ; not liking 
to run away quite, as some people might call 
it ; but seeking to look like a wanderer who 
was come to see the valley, and had seen al- 
most enough of it. Herein I should have 
succeeded, and gone home, and then been 
angry at my want of courage, but that on 
the very turn and bending of my footsteps 
the woman in the distance lifted up her 
staff to me, so that I was bound to stop. 

And now, being brought face to face, by 
the will of God (as one might say), with 
any thing that might come of it, I kept my- 
self quite straight and stiff, and thrust away 
all white feather, trusting in my Bible still, 
hoping that it would protect me, though I 
had disobeyed it. But upon that remem- 
brance, my conscience took me by the leg, 
so that I could not go forward. 

All this while the fearful woman was 
coming near and more near to me ; and I 
was glad to sit down on a rock, because my 
knees were shaking so. I tried to think 
of many things, but none of them would 
come to me ; and I could not take my eyes 
away, though I prayed God to be near 
me. 

But when she was come so nigh to me that 
I could descry her features, there was some- 
thing in her countenance that made me not 
dislike her. She looked as if she had been 
visited by a -many troubles, and had felt 
them one by one ; yet held enough of kind- 
ly nature still to grieve for others. Long 
white hair, on either side, was falling down 
below her chin; and through her wrinkles 
clear bright eyes seemed to spread them- 
selves upon me. Though I had plenty of 
time to think, I was taken by surprise no 
less, and unable to say any thing ; yet eager 
to hear the silence broken, and longing for 
a noise or two. 

“ Thou art not come to me,” she said, look- 
ing through my simple face, as if it were but 
glass, “ to be struck for bone-shave, nor to 
be blessed for barn-gun. Give me forth thy 
hand, John Ridd ; and tell why thou art 
come to me.” 

But I was so much amazed at her know- 
ing my name and all about me, that I feared 
to place my hand in her power, or even my 
tongue by speaking. 

“ Have no fear of me, my son ; I have no 
gift to harm tliee ; and if I had, it should be 
idle. Now, if thou hast any wit, tell me 
why I love thee.” 

“ I never had any wit, mother,” I an- 
swered, in our Devonshire way; “and never 


DOONE. 65 

set eyes on thee before, to the furthest of my 
knowledge.” 

“And yet I know thee as well, John, as 
if thou wert my grandson. Remember you 
the old Oare oak, and the bog at the head 
of Exe, and the child who would have died 
there, but for thy strength and courage, and 
most of all, thy kindness ? That was my 
granddaughter, John ; and all I have on 
earth to love.” 

Now that she came to speak of it, with 
the place and that, so clearly, I remembered 
all about it (a thing that haj>pened last Au- 
gust), and thought how stupid I must have 
been not to learn more of the little girl who 
had fallen into the black pit, with a basket- 
ful of whortleberries, and who might have 
been gulfed if her little dog had not spied 
me in the distance. I carried her on my 
back to mother; and then we dressed her 
all anew, and took her where she ordered 
us ; but she did not tell us who she was, nor 
any thing more than her Christian name, 
and that she was eight years old, and fond 
of fried batatas. And we did not seek to 
ask her more ; as our manner is with visit- 
ors. 

But thinking of this little story, and see- 
ing how she looked at me, I lost my fear of 
Mother Melldrum, and began to like her; 
partly because I had helped her grandchild, 
and partly that, if she were so wise, no need 
would have been for me to save the little 
thing from drowning. Therefore I stood 
up and said, though scarcely yet established 
in my power against hers — 

“ Good mother, the shoe she lost was in 
the mire, and not with us. And we could 
not match it, although we gave her a pair 
of sister Lizzie’s.” 

“ My son, what care I for her shoe ? How 
simple thou art, and foolish, according to 
the thoughts of some. Now tell me, for thou 
canst not lie, what has brought thee to 
me.” 

Being so ashamed and bashful, I was half 
inclined to tell her a lie, until she said that 
I could not do it ; and then I knew that 1 
could not. 

“ I am come to know,” I said, looking at 
a rock the while, to keep my voice from 
shaking, “when I may go to see Lorna 
Doone.” 

No more could I say, though my mind was 
charged to ask fifty other questions. But 
although I looked away, it was plain that I 
had asked enough. I felt that- the wise 
woman gazed at me in wrath as well as sor- 
row; and then I grew angry that any one 
should seem to make light of Lorna. 

“John Ridd,” said the woman, observing 
this (for now I faced her bravely), “of 
whom art thou speaking? Is it a child of 
the men who slew your father ?” 

“I can not tell, mother. How should 1 
know ? And what is that to thee ?” 


66 


LORNA DOONE. 


“It is something to thy mother, John; 
and something to thyself, I trow ; and noth- 
ing worse could befall thee.” 

I waited for her to speak again, because 
she had spoken so sadly that it took my 
breath away. 

“John Ridd, if thou hast any value for 
thy body or thy soul, thy mother or thy 
father’s name, have naught to do with any 
Doone.” 

She gazed at me in earnest so, and raised 
her voice in saying it, until the whole valley, 
curving like a great bell, echoed “ Doone,” 
that it seemed to me my heart was gone, for 
every one aud every thing. If it were God’s 
will for me to have no more of Lorna, let 
a sign come out of the rocks, and I would 
try to believe it. But no sign came ; and I 
turned on the woman, and longed that she 
had been a man. 

“You poor thing, with bones and blades, 
pails of water, and door-keys, what know 
you about the destiny of a maiden such as 
Lorna ? Chilblain you may treat, and bone- 
shave, ringworm, and the scaldings; even 
scabby sheep may limp the better for your 
strikings. John the Baptist and his cousins, 
with the wool and hyssop, are for mares, and 
ailing dogs, and fowls that have the jaun- 
dice. Look at me now, Mother Melldrum, 
am I like a fool ?” 

“That thou art, my son. Alas that it 
were any other! Now behold the end of 
that ; John Ridd, mark the end of it.” 

She pointed to the castle -rock, where 
upon a narrow shelf, betwixt us and the 
coming stars, a bitter fight was raging. A 
fine fat sheep, with an honest face, had 
climbed up very carefully to browse on a bit 
of juicy grass, now the dew of the laud was 
upon it. To him, from an upper crag, a lean 
black goat came hurrying, with leaps, and 
skirmish of the horns, and an angry noise in 
his nostrils. The goat had grazed the place 
before to the utmost of his liking, cropping 
in and out with jerks, as their manner is of 
feeding. Nevertheless he fell on the sheep 
with fury and great malice. 

The simple wether was much inclined to 
retire from the contest, but looked around 
in vain for any way to peace and comfort. 
His enemy stood between him and the last 
leap he had taken ; there was nothing left 
him but to fight, or to be hurled into the 
sea, five hundred feet below. 

“Lie down, lie down!” I shouted to him, 
as if he were a dog ; for I had seen a battle 
like this before, and knew that the sheep 
had no chance of life, except from his great- 
er weight, and the difficulty of moving him. 

“Lie down, lie down, John Ridd!” cried 
Mother Melldrum, mocking me, but without 
a sign of smiling. 

The poor sheep turned, upon my voice, 
and looked at me so piteously that I could 
look no longer, but ran with all my speed 


to try and save him from the combat. 
saw that I could not be in time, for the goat 
was bucking to leap at him, and so the good 
wether stooped his forehead, with the harm- 
less horns curling aside of it ; and the goat 
flung his heels up, and rushed at him, with 
quick, sharp jumps and tricks of movement, 
and the points of his long horns always fore- 
most, and his little scut cocked like a gun- 
hammer. 

As I ran up the steep of the rock, I could 
not see what they were doing ; but the sheep 
must have fought very bravely at last, and 
yielded his ground quite slowly, and I hoped 
almost to save him. But just as my head 
topped the platform of rock, I saw him flung 
from it backward, with a sad low moan and. 
a gurgle. His body made quite a short noise 
in the air, like a bucket thrown down a well- 
shaft, and I could not tell when it struck the 
water, except by the echo among the rocks. 
So wroth was I with the goat at the mo- 
ment (being somewhat scant of breath, and 
unable to consider), that I caught him by 
the right hind-leg, before he could turn from 
his victory, and hurled him after the sheep, 
to learn how he liked his own compulsion. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

ANOTHER DANGEROUS INTERVIEW. 

Although I left the Denes at once, hav- 
ing little heart for further questions of the 
wise woman, and being afraid to visit her 
house under the “Devil’s cheese-ring” (to 
which she kindly invited me), and although 
I ran most part of the way, it was very late 
for farm-house time upon a Sunday evening, 
before I was back at Plover’s Barrows. My 
mother had great desire to know all about 
the matter ; but I could not reconcile it with 
my respect so to frighten her. Therefore I 
tried to sleep it off, keeping my own coun- 
sel ; and when that proved of no avail, I 
strove to work it away, if might be, by 
heavy outdoor labor, and weariness, and 
good feeding. These indeed had some ef- 
fect, and helped to pass a week or two, with 
more pain of hand than heart to me. 

But when the weather changed in earnest, 
and the frost was gone, and the south-west 
wind blew softly, and the lambs were at 
play with the daisies, it was more than I 
could do to keep from thought of Lorna. 
For now the fields were spread with growth, 
and the waters clad with sunshine, and light 
and shadow, step by step, wandered over the 
furzy cleves. All the sides of the hilly wood 
were gathered in and out with green, silver- 
gray, or russet points, according to the sever- 
al manner of the trees beginning. And if one 
stood beneath an elm, with any heart to look 
at it, lo ! all the ground was strewn with 
flakes (too small to know their meaniugV 


LORNA DOONE. 


67 


and all tlie sprays above were rasped and 
trembling with a redness. And so I stopped 
beneath the tree, and carved L. D. upon it, 
and wondered at the buds of thought that 
seemed to swell inside me. 

The upshot of it all was this, that as no 
Lorna came to me, except in dreams or fancy, 
and as my life was not worth living without 
constant sigu of her, forth I must again to 
find her, and say more than a man can tell. 
Therefore, without waiting longer for the 
moving of the spring, dressed I was in grand 
attire (so far as I had gotten it), and think- 
ing my appearance good, although with 
doubts about it (being forced to dress in 
the hay-tallat), round the corner of the 
wood -stack went I very knowingly — for 
Lizzie’s eyes w T ere wondrous sharp — and 
then I was sure of meeting none who would 
care or dare to speak of me. 

It lay upon my conscience often that I 
had not made dear Annie secret to this his- 
tory ; although in all things I could trust 
her, and she loved me like a lamb. Many 
and many a time I tried, and more than 
once began the thing; but there came a 
dryness in my throat, and a knocking under 
the roof of my mouth, and a longing to put 
it off again, as perhaps might be the wisest. 
And then I would remember too that I had 
no right to speak of Lorna as if she were 
common property. 

This time I longed to take my gun, and 
was half resolved to do so ; because it seem- 
ed so hard a thing to be shot at, and have 
no chance of shooting ; but when I came to 
remember the steepness and the slippery na- 
ture of the water-slide, there seemed but 
little likelihood of keeping dry the powder. 
Therefore I was armed with nothing but a 
good stout holly staff, seasoned w^ell for many 
a winter in our back-kitchen chimney. 

Although my heart w*as leaping high with 
the prospect of some adventure, and the fear 
of meeting Lorna, I could not but be glad- 
dened by the softness of the weather, and the 
welcome -way of every thing. There was 
that power all round, that power and that 
goodness, which make us come, as it were, 
outside our bodily selves to share them. 
Over and beside us breathes the joy of hope 
and promise ; under foot are troubles past ; 
in the distance bowering newness tempts us 
ever forward. We quicken with largesse of 
life, and spring with vivid mystery. 

And, in good sooth, I had to spring, and 
no mystery about it, ere ever I got to the 
top of the rift leading into Doone-glade. For 
the stream was rushing down in strength, 
and raving at every corner; a mort of rain 
having fallen last night and no wind come 
to wipe it. However, I reached the head 
ere dark with more difficulty than danger, 
and sat in a place which comforted my back 
and legs desirably. 

Hereupon I grew so happy at being on dry 


land again, and come to look for Lorna, with 
pretty trees around me, that what did I do 
but fall asleep with the holly-stick in front 
of me and my best coat sunk in a bed of 
moss, w ith water and wood-sorrel. Mayhap 
I had not done so, nor yet enjoyed the spring 
so much, if so be I had not taken three parts 
of a gallon of cider at home, at Plover’s Bar- 
rows, because of the lowness and sinking 
ever since I met Mother Melldrum. 

There was a little runnel going softly 
down beside me, falling from the upper rock 
by the means of moss and grass, as if it fear- 
ed to make a noise, and had a mother sleep- 
ing. Now and then it seemed to stop, in 
fear of its own dropping, and waiting for 
some orders ; and the blades of grass that 
straightened to it turned their points a lit- 
tle way, and offered their allegiance to wind 
instead of water. Yet before their cackled 
edges bent more than a driven saw, down 
the water came again with heavy drops and 
pats of running, and bright anger at neglect. 

This was very pleasant to me, now and 
then, to gaze at, blinking as the water blink- 
ed, and falling back to sleep again. Sud- 
denly my sleep was broken by a shade cast 
over me ; between me and the low sunlight 
Lorna Doone was standing. 

“ Master Ridd, are you mad ?” she said, 
and took my hand to move me. 

“Not mad, but half asleep,” I answered, 
feigning not to notice her, that so she might 
keep hold of me. 

“ Come away, come away, if you care for 
life. The patrol will be here directly. Be 
quick, Master Ridd, let me hide thee.” 

“ I will not stir a step,” said I, though be- 
ing in the greatest fright that might be well 
imagined, “ unless you call me ‘ John.’ ” 

“ Well, John, then — Master John Ridd, 
be quick, if you have any to care for you.” 

“ I have many that care for me,” I said, 
just to let her know; “and I will follow 
you, Mistress Lorna; albeit without any 
hurry, unless there be peril to more than 
me.” 

Without another word she led me, though 
with many timid glances toward the upper 
valley, to, and into, her little bower, where 
the inlet through the rock was. I am almost 
sure that I spoke before (though I can not 
now go seek for it, and my memory is but a 
worn-out tub) of a certain deep and perilous 
pit, in which I was like to drown myself 
through hurry and fright of boyhood. And 
even then I wondered greatly, and was vex- 
ed with Lorna for sending me in that heed- 
less manner into such an entrance. But now 
it was clear that she had been right, and the 
fault mine own entirely ; for the entrance to 
the pit was only to be found by seeking it. 
Inside the niche of native stone, the plain- 
est thing of all to see, at any rate by day- 
light, was the stairway hewn from rock, and 
leading up the mountain, by means of which 


68 


LORNA DOONE. 


I liad escaped, as before related. To the 
right side of this was the mouth of the pit, 
still looking very formidable ; though Lorna 
laughed at my fear of it, for she drew her 
water theuce. But ou the left was a nar- 
row crevice, very difficult to espy, and having 
a sweep of gray ivy laid, like a slouching 
heaver, over it. A man here coming from 
the brightness of the outer air, w r ith eyes 
dazed by the twilight, would never think of 
seeing this and following it to its meaning. 

Lorna raised the screen for me, but I had 
much ado to pass, on account of bulk and 
stature. Instead of being proud of my size 
(as it seemed to me she ought to be), Lorna 
laughed so quietly that I was ready to knock 
my head or elbows against any thing, and say 
no more about it. However, I got through 
at last without a word of compliment, and 
broke into the pleasant room, the lone re- 
treat of Lorna. 

The chamber was of unhewn rock, round, 
as near as might be, eighteen or twenty feet 
across, and gay with rich variety of fern and 
moss and lichen. The fern was in its win- 
ter still, or coiling for the spring-tide ; but 
moss was in abundant life, some feathering, 
and some gobleted, and some with fringe of 
red to it. Overhead there was no ceiling 
but the sky itself, flaked with little clouds 
of April whitely wandering over it. The 
floor was made of soft, low grass, mixed with 
moss and primroses ; and in a niche of shel- 
ter moved the delicate wood-sorrel. Here 
and there, around the sides, were “ chairs of 
living stone,” as some Latin writer says, 
whose name has quite escaped me ; and in 
the midst a tiny spring arose, with crystal 
beads in it, and a soft voice as of a laughing 
dream, and dimples like a sleeping babe. 
Then, after going round a little, with sur- 
prise of daylight, the water overwelled the 
edge, and softly went through lines of light 
to shadows and an untold bourne. 

While I was gazing at all these things 
with wonder and some sadness, Lorna turn- 
ed upon me lightly (as her manner was) 
and said, 

“Where are the new-laid eggs, Master 
Ridd ? Or hath blue hen ceased laying ?” 

I did not altogether like the way in which 
she said it, with a sort of a dialect, as if my 
speech could be laughed at. 

“ Here be some,” I answered, speaking as 
if in spite of her. “ I would have brought 
thee twice as many, but that I feared to 
crush them in the narrow ways, Mistress 
Lorna.” 

And so I laid her out two dozen upon the 
moss of the rock ledge, unwinding the wisp 
of hay from each as it came safe out of my 
pocket. Lorna looked with growing won- 
der, as I added one to one ; and when I had 
placed them side by side, and bidden her now 
to tell them, to my amazement what did she 
do but burst into a flood of tears ! 


“What have I done?” I asked, with 
shame, scarce daring even to look at her, 
because her grief was not like Annie’s — a 
thing that could be coaxed away, and left a 
joy in going — “ oh, what have I done to vex 
you so ?” 

“ It is nothing done by you, Master Ridd,” 
she answered, very proudly, as if naught I 
did could matter ; “ it is only something that 
comes upon me with the scent of the pure 
true clover-hay. Moreover, you have been 
too kind ; and I am not used to kindness.” 

Some sort of awkwardness was on me, at 
her words and weeping, as if I would like to 
say something, but feared to make things 
worse, perhaps, than they were already. 
Therefore I abstained from speech, as I 
would in my own pain. And as it happen- 
ed, this was the way to make her tell me 
more about it. Not that I was curious, be- 
yond what pity urged me and the strange 
affairs around her; and now I gazed upon 
the floor, lest I should seem to watch her ; 
but none the less for that I knew all that 
she was doing. 

Lorna went a little way, as if she would 
not think of me, nor care for one so careless ; 
and all my heart gave a sudden jump, to go 
like a mad thing after her; until she turned 
of her own accord, and with a little sigh 
came back to me. Her eyes were soft with 
trouble’s shadow, and the proud lift of her 
neck was gone, and beauty’s vanity borne 
down by woman’s want of sustenance. 

“Master Ridd,” she said in the softest 
voice that ever flowed between two lips, 
“ have I done aught to offend you ?” 

Hereupon it went hard with me, not to 
catch her up and kiss her, in the manner in 
which she was looking ; only it smote me 
suddenly that this would be a low advantage 
of her trust and helplessness. She seemed 
to know what I would be at, and to doubt 
very greatly about it, whether as a child of 
old she might permit the usage. All sorts 
of things went through my head, as I made 
myself look away from her, for fear of being 
tempted beyond what I could bear. And 
the upshot of it was that I said, within my 
heart and through it, “ John Ridd, be on thy 
very best manners with this lonely maiden.” 

Lorna liked me all tbe better for my good 
forbearance, because she did not love me 
yet, and had not thought about it ; at least 
so far as I knew. And though her eyes were 
so beauteous, so very soft and kindly, there 
was (to my apprehension) some great power 
in them, as if she would not have a thing, 
unless her judgment leaped with it. 

But now her judgment leaped with me, 
because I had behaved so well ; and being 
of quick urgent nature — such as I delight 
in, for the change from mine own slowness 
— she, without any let or hinderauce, sitting 
over against me, now raising and now drop- 
ping fringe over those sweet eyes that were 


LORNA DOONE. 


69 


the road-lights of her tongue, Lorna told me 
all about every thing I wished to know, 
every little thing she knew, except, indeed, 
that point of points, how Master Ridd stood 
with her. 

Although it wearied me no whit, it might 
be wearisome for folk who can not look at 
Lorna, to hear the story all in speech, exact- 
ly as she told it; therefore let me put it 
shortly, to the best of my remembrance. 

Nay, pardon me, whosoever thou art, for 
seeming fickle and rude to thee; I have tried 
to do as first proposed, to tell the tale in my 
own words, as of another’s fortune. But, lo ! 
I was beset at once with many heavy obsta- 
cles, which grew as I went onward, until I 
knew not where I was, and mingled past and 
present. And two of these difficulties only 
were enough to stop me — the one that I must 
coldly speak without the force of pity, the 
other that I, off and on, confused myself with 
Lorna, as might be well expected. 

Therefore let her tell the story with her 
own sweet voice and manner ; and if ye find 
it wearisome, seek in yourselves the weari- 
ness. 

* 

CHAPTER XX. 

LORNA BEGINS HER STORY. 

“I can not go through all my thoughts 
so as to make them clear to you, nor have I 
ever dwelt on things to shape a story ofthem. 
I know not where the beginning was, nor 
where the middle ought to be, nor even how 
at the present time I feel, or think, or ought 
to think. If I look for help to those around 
me, who should tell me right and wrong 
(being older and much wiser), I meet some- 
times with laughter, and at other times with 
anger. 

“There are but two in the world who 
ever listen and try to help me ; one of them 
is my grandfather, and the other is a man 
of wisdom, whom we call Counselor. My 
grandfather, Sir Ensor Doone, is very old 
and harsh of manner (except indeed to me) ; 
he seems to know what is right and wrong, 
but not to want to think of it. The Coun- 
selor, on the other hand, though full of life 
and subtleties, treats my questions as of 
play, and not gravely worth his while to an- 
swer, unless he can make wit of them. 

• “And among the women there are none 
with whom I can hold converse, since my 
Aunt Sabina died, who took such pains to 
teach me. She was a lady of high repute, 
and lofty ways and learning, but grieved 
and harassed more and more by the coarse- 
ness, and the violence, and the ignorance, 
around her. In vain she strove, from year 
to year, to make the young men hearken, 
to teach them what became their birth, and 
give them sense of honor. It was her fa- 
vorite word, poor thing! and they called 


her 1 Old Aunt Honor.’ Very often she used 
to say that I was her only comfort, and I 
am sure she was my only one; and when 
she died it was more to me than if I had 
lost a mother. 

“For I have no remembrance now of fa- 
ther or of mother; although they say that 
my father was the eldest son of Sir Ensor 
Doone, and the bravest and the best of them. 
And so they call me heiress to this little 
realm of violence ; and in sorry sport, some- 
times, I am their princess or their queen. 

“ Many people living here, as I am forced 
to do, would perhaps be very happy, and 
perhaps I ought to be so. We have a beau- 
teous valley, sheltered from the cold of win- 
ter and power of the summer sun, untrou- 
bled also by the storms and mists that veil 
the mountains; although I must acknowl- 
edge that it is apt to rain too often. The 
grass, moreover, is so fresh, and the brook 
so bright and lively, and flowers of so many 
hues come after one another, that no one 
need be dull, if only left alone with them. 

“And so in the early day, perhaps, when 
morning breathes around me, and the sun is 
going upward, and light is playing every- 
where, I am not so far beside them all as to 
live in shadow. But when the evening 
gathers down, and the sky is spread with 
sadness, and the day has spent itself ; then 
a cloud of lonely trouble falls, like night, 
upon me. I can not see the things I quest 
for of a world beyond me ; I can not join 
the peace and quiet of the depth above me ; 
neither have I any pleasure in the bright- 
ness of the stars. 

“ What I want to know is something none 
of them can tell me — what am I, and why 
set here, and when shall I be with them ? 
I see that you are surprised a little at this 
my curiosity. Perhaps such questions nev- 
er spring in any wholesome spirit. But 
they are in the depths of mine, and I can 
not be quit of them. 

“ Meantime all around me is violence 
and robbery, coarse delight and savage pain, 
reckless joke and hopeless death. Is it any 
wonder that I can not sink with these, that 
I can not so forget my soul as to live the 
life of brutes, and die the death more horri- 
ble because it dreams of waking ? There is 
none to lead me forward, there is none to 
teach me right ; young as I am, I live be- 
neath a curse that lasts forever.” 

Here Lorna broke down for a while, and 
cried so very piteously, that doubting of my 
knowledge, and of any power to comfort, I 
did my best to hold my peace, and tried to 
look very cheerful. Then thinking that 
might be bad manners, I went to wipe her 
e^es for her. 

“ Master Ridd,” she began again, “ I am 
both ashamed and vexed at my own child- 
ish folly. But you, who have a mother, who 
thinks (you say) so much of you, and sisters, 


70 


LORNA DOONE. 


and a quiet home, you can not tell (it is not 
likely) what a lonely nature is. How it 
leaps in mirth sometimes, with only heaven 
touching it ; and how it falls away despond- 
ing, when the dreary weight creeps on. 

“ It does not happen many times that I 
give way like this ; more shame now to do so, 
when I ought to entertain you. Sometimes 
I am so full of anger, that I dare not trust to 
speech, at things they cannot hide from me; 
and perhaps you would be much surprised 
that reckless men would care so much to 
elude a young girl’s knowledge. They used 
to boast to Aunt Sabina of pillage and of 
cruelty, on purpose to enrage her, but they 
never boast to me. It even makes me smile 
sometimes to see how awkwardly they come 
and offer for temptation to me shining pack- 
ets, half concealed, of ornaments and finery, 
of rings, or chains, or jewels, lately belong- 
ing to other people. 

“ But when I try to search the past, to 
get a sense of what befell me ere my own 
perception formed ; to feel back for the lines 
of childhood, as a trace of gossamer, then I 
only know that naught lives longer than 
God wills it. So may after -sin go by, for 
we are children always, as the Counselor 
has told me : so may we, beyond the clouds, 
seek this infancy of life, and never find its 
’ memory. 

“ But I am talking now of things which 
never come across me when any work is to- 
ward. It might have been a good thing for 
me to have had a father to beat these rov- 
ings out of me, or a mother to make a 
home, and teach me how to manage it. For, 
being left with none — I think ; and nothing 
ever comes of it. Nothing, I mean, which I 
can grasp and have with any surety ; noth- 
ing but faint images, and wonderment, and 
wandering. But often, when I am neither 
searching back into remembrance, nor ask- 
ing of my parents, but occupied by trifles, 
something like a sign, or message, or a token 
of some meaning, seems to glance upon me. 
Whether from the rustling wind, or sound 
of distaut music, or the singing of a bird, 
like the sun on snow it strikes me with a 
pain of pleasure. 

“And often when I wake at night, and 
listen to the silence, or wander far from 
people in the grayness of the evening, or 
stand and look at quiet water having shad- 
ows over it, some vague image seems to hov- 
er on the skirt of vision, ever changing place 
and outline, ever flitting as I follow. This 
so moves and hurries me, in the eagerness 
and longiug, that straightway all my chance 
is lost ; and memory scared like a wild bird 
flies. Or am I as a child, perhaps, chasing 
a flown cageling, who among the branches 
free plays and peeps at the offered cage (as 
a home not to be urged on him), and means 
to take his time of coming, if he comes at 
aU? 


“ Often, too, I wonder at the odds of tor- 
tune, which made me (helpless as I am, and 
fond of peace and reading) the heiress of 
this mad domain, the sanctuary of unholi- 
ness. It is not likely that I shall have much 
power of authority ; and yet the Counselor 
creeps up to be my Lord of the Treasury ; 
and his son aspires to my hand, as of a roy- 
al alliance. Well, ‘honor among thieves/ 
they say; and mine is the first honor: al- 
though among decent folk, perhaps, honesty 
is better. 

“We should not be so quiet here, and safe 
from interruption, but that I have begged 
one privilege rather than commanded it. 
This was that the lower end, just this nar- 
rowing of the valley, where it is most hard 
to come at, might be looked upon as mine, 
except for purposes of guard. Therefore 
none beside the sentries ever trespass on me 
here, unless it be my grandfather, or the 
Counselor, or Carver. 

“ By your face, Master Ridd, I see that 
you have heard of Carver Dooue. For 
strength, and courage, and resource, he bears 
the first repute among us, as might well bo 
expected from the son of the Counselor. 
But he differs from his father, in being very 
hot and savage, and quite free from argu- 
ment. The Counselor, who is my uncle, 
gives his son the best advice ; commending 
all the virtues, with eloquence and wisdom ; 
yet himself abstaining from them accurate- 
ly and impartially. 

“You must be tired of this story, and the 
time I take to think, and the weakness of 
my telling ; but my life from day to day 
shows so little variance. Among the riders 
there is none whose safe return I watch for 
— I mean none more than other — and indeed 
there seems no risk, all are now so feared of 
us. Neither of the old men is there whom I 
can revere or love (except alone my grand- 
father, whom I love with trembling) ; nei- 
ther of the women any whom I like to deal 
with, unless it be a little maiden whom I 
saved from starving. 

“A little Cornish girl she is, and shaped 
in Western manner, not so very much less in 
width than if you take her lengthwise. Her 
father seems to have been a miner, a Corn- 
ishman (as she declares) of more than aver- 
age excellence, and better than any two men 
to be found in Devonshire, or any four in 
Somerset. Very few things can have been 
beyond his power of performance, and yet 
he left his daughter to starve upon a peat- 
rick. She does not know how this was 
done, and looks upon it as a mystery, the 
meaning of which will some day be clear, 
and redound to her father’s honor. His 
name was Simon Carfax, and he came as the 
captain of a gang from one of the Cornish 
stanueries. Gwenny Carfax, my young maid, 
well remembers how her father was brought 
up from Cornwall. Her mother had been 


LORNA DOONE. 


71 


"buried just a weak or so "before ; and he was 
sad about it, and had been off his work, and 
was ready for another job. Then people 
came to him by night, and said that he must 
want a change, and every body lost their 
wives, and work was the way to mend it. 
So what with grief, and overthought, and 
the inside of a square bottle, Gwenny says 
they brought him off to become a mighty 
captain, and choose the country round. The 
last she saw of him was this, that he went 
down a ladder somewhere on the wilds of 
Exmoor, leaving her with bread-and-cheese, 
and his traveling-hat to see to. And from 
that day to this he never came above the 
ground again, so far as we can hear of. 

“ But Gwenny, holding to his hat, and 
Raving eaten the bread-and-cheese (when he 
came no more to help her), dwelt three days 
near the mouth of the hole ; and then it was 
closed over, the while that she was sleeping. 
With weakness and with want of food she 
lost herself distressfully, and went away for 
miles or more, and lay upon a peat-rick, to 
die before the ravens. 

“That very day I chanced to return from 
Aunt Sabina’s dying- place; for she would 
not die in Glen Doone, she said, lest the an- 
gels feared to come for her ; and so she was 
taken to a cottage in a lonely valley. I 
was allowed to visit her, for even we durst 
not refuse the wishes of the dying ; and if 
a priest had been desired, we should have 
made bold with him. Returning very sor- 
rowful, and caring now for nothing, I found 
this little stray thing lying, with her arms 
upon her, and not a sign of life, except the 
way that she was biting. Black root-stuff 
was in her mouth, and a piece of dirty sheep’s 
wool, and at her feet an old egg-shell of some 
bird of the moor-land. 

“ I tried to raise her, but she was too 
square and heavy for me ; and so I put food 
in her mouth, and left her to do right with 
it. And this she did in a little time ; for the 
victuals were very choice and rare, being 
what I had taken over to tempt poor Aunt 
Sabina. Gwenny ate them without delay, 
and then was ready to eat the basket and 
the ware that had contained them. 

“ Gwenny took me for an angel — though 
I am little like one, as you see, Master Ridd ; 
and she followed me, expecting that I would 
open wings and fly when we came to any 
difficulty. I brought her home with me, so 
far as this can be a home; and she made 
herself my sole attendant, without so much 
as asking me. She has beaten two or three 
other girls, who used to wait upon me, until 
they are afraid to come near the house of my 
grandfather. She seems to have no kind 
of fear even of our roughest men ; and yet 
she looks with reverence and awe upon the 
Counselor. As for the wickedness, and theft, 
and revelry around her, she says it is no 
concern of hers, and they know their own 


business best. By this way of regarding 
men she has won upon our riders, so that 
she is almost free from all control of place 
and season, and is allowed to pass where 
none even of the youths may go. Being so 
wide, and short, and flat, she has none to 
pay her compliments ; and, were there any, 
she would scorn them, as not being Cornish- 
men. Sometimes she wanders far, by moon- 
light, on the moors and up the . rivers, to 
give her father (as she says) another chance 
of finding her; and she comes back not a 
whit defeated, or discouraged, or depressed, 
but confident that he is only waiting for the 
proper time. 

“ Herein she sets me good example of a 
patience and contentment hard for me to 
imitate. Oftentimes I am so vexed by 
things I can not meddle 'with, yet can not 
be kept from me, that I am at the point of 
flying from this dreadful valley, and risking 
all that can betide me in the unknown outer 
world. If it were not for my grandfather, I 
would have done so long ago ; but I can not 
bear that he should die with no gentle hand 
to comfort him ; and I fear to thiuk of the 
conflict that must ensue for the government, 
if there be a disputed succession. 

“Ah me! We are to be pitied greatly, 
rather than condemned, by people whose 
things we have taken from them ; for I 
have read, and seem almost to understand 
about it, that there are places on the earth 
where gentle peace, and love of home, and 
knowledge of one’s neighbors prevail, and 
are, with reason, looked for as the usual state 
of things. There honest folk may go to work 
in the glory of the sunrise, with hope of 
coming home again quite safe in the quiet 
evening, and finding all their children ; and 
even in the darkness they have no fear of 
lying down and dropping off to slumber, 
and hearken to the wind at night, not as 
to an enemy trying to find entrance, but a 
friend, who comes to tell the value of their 
comfort. 

“ Of all this golden ease I hear, but never 
saw the like of it ; and, haply, I shall never 
do so, being born to turbulence. Once, in- 
deed, I had the offer of escape, and kins- 
man’s aid, and high place in the gay, bright 
world ; and yet I was not tempted much, or, 
at least, dared not to trust it. And it ended 
very sadly, so dreadfully that I even shrink 
from telling you about it ; for that one ter- 
ror changed my life in a moment, at a blow, 
from childhood, and from thoughts of play 
and commune with the flowers and trees, to 
a sense of death and darkness, and a heavy 
weight of earth. Be content now, Master 
Ridd ; ask me nothing more about it, so your 
sleep be sounder.” 

But I, John Ridd, being young and new, 
and very fond of hearing things to make my ' 
blood to tingle, had no more of manners than 
to urge poor Lorna onward, hoping, perhaps, 


72 


LORNA DOONE. 


in depth of heart, that she might have to hold 
by me, when the Avorst came to the worst of 
it. Therefore she went on again. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

LORNA ENDS HER STORY. 

“It is not a twelvemonth yet, although 
it seems ten years agone, since I blew the 
downy globe to learn the time of day, or set 
beneath my chin the veinings of the var- 
nished buttercup, or fired the fox-glove can- 
nonade, or made a captive of myself with 
dandelion fetters ; for then I had not very 
much to trouble me in earnest, but went 
about, romancing gravely, playing at bo- 
peep with fear, making for myself strong 
heroes of gray rock or fir-tree, adding to my 
own importance, as the children loA r e to do. 

“As yet I had not truly learned the evil 
of our living, the scorn of laAV, the outrage, 
and the sorrow caused to others. It even 
was a point with all to hide the roughness 
from me, to show me but the gallant side, 
and keep in shade the other. My grand- 
father, Sir Ensor Doone, had given strictest 
order, as I discovered aftenvard, that in my 
presence all should be seemly, kind, and 
vigilant. Nor Avas it very difficult to keep 
most part of the mischief from me ; for no 
Doone ever robs at home, neither do they 
quarrel much, except at times of gambling. 
And though Sir Ensor Doone is now so old, 
and groAving feeble, his own way he will 
haA r e still, and no one dare deny him. Even 
our fiercest and most mighty swordsmen, 
seared from all sense of right or wrong, yet 
haA r e plentiful sense of fear, when brought 
before that white-haired man. Not that he 
is rough Avith them, or querulous, or rebuke- 
ful ; but that he has a strange, soft smile, 
and a gaze they can not answer, and a 
knowledge deeper far than they have of 
themselves. Under his protection, I am as 
safe from all those men (some of whom are 
but little akin to me) as if I slept beneath 
the roof of the King’s Lord Justiciary. 

“ But now, at the time I speak of, one 
evening of last summer, a horrible thing 
befell, which took all play of childhood from 
me. The fifteenth day of last J uly was very 
hot and sultry, long after the time of sun- 
down ; and I was paying heed to it, because 
of the old saying that if it rain then, rain 
will fall on forty days thereafter. I had 
been long by the water-side at this lower 
end of the valley, plaiting a little crown of 
woodbine crocheted with sprigs of heath — 
to please my grandfather, who likes to see 
me gay at supper-time. Being proud of my 
tiara, which had cost some trouble, I set it 
on my head at once, to save the chance of 
crushing, and carrying my gray hat, ven- 
tured by a path not often trod. For I must 


be home at the supper-time, or grandfather 
would be exceeding wroth ; and the Avorst 
of his anger is that he never condescends to 
show it. 

“ Therefore, instead of the open mead, or 
the windings of the river, I made short cut 
through the ash-trees covert, which lies in 
the middle of our vale, with the Avater skirt- 
iug or cleaving it. You have never been up 
so far as that — at least to the best of my 
knowledge — but you see it like a long gray 
spot, from the top of the cliffs aboA r e us. 
Here I was not likely to meet any of our 
people, because the young ones are afraid of 
some ancient tale about it, and the old ones 
have no love of trees Avhere gunshots are un- 
certain. 

“ It was more almost than dusk, down be- 
low the tree-leaves, and I was eager to go 
through, and be again beyond it. For the 
gray dark hung around me, scarcely showing 
shadow ; and the little light that glimmered 
seemed to come up from the ground. For 
the earth was strewn with the winter-spread 
and coil of last year’s foliage, the lichen ed 
claws of chalky twigs, and the numberless 
decay which gives a light in its decaying. 
I, for my part, hastened shyly, ready to draw 
back and run from hare, or rabbit, or small 
field-mouse. 

At a sudden turn of the narrow path, 
where it stooped again to the river, a man 
leaped out from behind a tree, and stopped 
me, and seized hold of me. I tried to shriek, 
but my voice Avas still; and I could only 
hear my heart. 

“ ‘ Now, Cousin Lorna, my good cousin/ 
he said, with ease and calmness ; ‘ your voice 
is very sweet, no doubt, from all that I can 
see of you. But I pray you keep it still, un- 
less you would give to dusty death your 
very best cousin and trusty guardian, Alan 
Brandir, of Loch Awe.’ 

‘“You my guardian!’ I said, for the idea 
was too ludicrous ; and ludicrous things al- 
ways strike me first, through some fault of 
nature. 

“ ‘ I have in truth that honor, madam/ he 
answered, with a sweeping boAV ; ‘ unless I 
err in taking you for Mistress Lorna Doone.’ 

“ ‘ You have not mistaken me. My name 
is Lorna Doone.’ 

“ He looked at me with gravity, and was 
inclined to make some claim to closer con- 
sideration, upon the score of kinship ; but I 
shrunk back, and only said, ‘ Yes, my name 
is Lorna Doone.’ 

“ ‘ Then I am your faithful guardian, Alan 
Brandir, of Loch Awe; called Lord Alan 
Brandir, son of a worthy peer of Scotland. 
Now will you confide in me V 

“ ‘I confide in you !’ I cried, looking at him 
with amazement; ‘why you are not older 
than I am !’ 

“‘Yes I am, three years at least. You, 
my ward, are not sixteen. I, your worship* 


LORNA DOONE. 


73 


ful guardian, am almost nineteen years of 
age.’ 

“ Upon hearing this I looked at him, for 
that seemed then a venerable age : but the 
more I looked the more I doubted, although 
he was dressed quite like a man. He led 
me iu a courtly manner, stepping at his tall- 
est to an open place beside the water, where 
the light came as in channel, and was made 
the most of by glancing waves and fair 
white stones. 

“ 1 Now am I to your liking, cousin V he 
asked, when I had gazed at him until I was 
almost ashamed, except at such a stripling. 
‘Does my Cousin Lorna judge kindly of her 
guardian, and her nearest kinsman ? In a 
word, is our admiration mutual?’ 

“ ‘ Truly I know not,’ I said ; ‘ but you 
seem good-natured, and to have no harm in 
you. Do they trust you with a sword V 

“ For in my usage among men of stature 
and strong presence, this pretty youth, so 
tricked and slender, seemed nothing but a 
doll to me. Although he scared me in the 
wood, now that I saw him in good twilight, 
lo ! he was but little greater than my little 
self; and so tasseled and so ruffled with a 
mint of bravery, and a green coat barred 
with red, and a slim sword hanging under 
him, it was the utmost I could do to look at 
him half-gravely. 

“ ‘ I fear that my presence hath scarce 
enough of ferocity about it,’ he gave a jerk 
to his sword as he spoke, and clanked it on 
the brook-stones ; ‘ yet do I assure you, cous- 
in, that I am not without some prowess : 
and many a master of defense hath this good 
sword of mine disarmed. Now, if the bold- 
est and biggest robber in all this charming 
valley durst so much as breathe the scent 
of that flower coronal, which doth not adorn 
but is adorned’ — -here he talked some non- 
sense — ‘I would cleave him from head to 
foot, ere ever he could fly or cry.’ 

“•'Hush!’ I said; ‘talk not so loudly, or 
thou mayest have to do both thyself, and 
do them both in vain.’ 

“ For he was quite forgetting now, in his 
bravery before me, w r here he stood, and with 
whom he spoke, and how the summer light- 
ning shone above the hills and down the 
hollow. And as I gazed on this slight fair 
youth, clearly one of high birth and breed- 
ing (albeit overboastful), a chill of fear 
crept over me ; because he had no strength 
or substance, and would be no more than a 
pincushion before the great swords of the 
Doones. 

“ ‘ I pray you be not vexed with me,’ he 
answered in a softer voice ; ‘ for I have trav- 
eled far and sorely, for the sake of seeing 
you. I know right well among whom I am, 
and that their hospitality is more of the 
knife than the salt-stand. Nevertheless I 
am safe enough, for my foot is the fleetest 
in Scotland, and what are these hills to me ? 


Tush ! I have seen some border forays among 
wilder spirits and craftier men than these 
be. Once I mind some years agone, when I 
was quite a stripling lad — ’ 

“‘Worshipful guardian,’ I said, ‘there is 
no time now for history. If thou art in no 
haste, I am, and can not stay here idling. 
Only tell me how I am akin and under ward- 
ship to thee, and what purpose brings thee 
here.’ 

“‘In order, cousin — all things in order, 
even with fair ladies. First, I am thy un- 
cle’s son, my father is thy mother’s brother, 
or at least thy grandmother’s — unless I am 
deceived in that which I have guessed, and 
no other man. For my father, being a lead- 
ing lord in the councils of King Charles the 
Second, appointed me to learn the law, not 
for my livelihood, thank God, but because 
he felt the lack of it in affairs of state. But 
first, your leave, young Mistress Lorna; I 
can not lay down legal maxims without aid 
of smoke.’ 

“He leaned against a willow-tree, and 
drawing from a gilded box a little dark 
thing like a stick, placed it between his lips, 
and then, striking a flint on steel, made fire 
and caught it upon touch-wood. With this 
he kindled the tip of the stick, until it glow- 
ed with a ring of red, and then he breathed 
forth curls' of smoke, blue and smelling on 
the air like spice. I had never seen this 
done before, though acquainted with tobac- 
co-pipes ; and it made me laugh, until I 
thought of the peril that must follow it. 

“ ‘ Cousin, have no fear,’ he said ; ‘ this 
makes me all the safer: they will take me 
for a glow-worm, and thee for the flower it 
shines upon. But to return — of law I learn- 
ed, as you may suppose, but little ; although 
I have capacities. But the thing was far too 
dull for me. All I care for is adventure, 
moving chance, and hot encounter; there- 
fore all of law I learned was how to live 
without it. Nevertheless, for amusement’s 
sake, as I must needs be at my desk an hour 
or so in the afternoon, I took to the sport- 
ing branch of the law, the pitfalls and the 
ambuscades ; and of all the traps to be laid 
therein, pedigrees are the rarest. There is 
scarce a man worth a cross of butter, but 
what you may find a hole in his shield with- 
in four generations. And so I struck our 
own escutcheon, and it sounded hollow. 
There is a point — but heed not that ; enough 
that, being curious now, I followed up the 
quarry, and I am come to this at last — we, 
even we, the lords of Loch Awe, have an out- 
law for our cousin; and I would we had 
more, if they be like you.’ 

“ ‘ Sir,’ I answered, being amused by his 
manner, which was new to me (for the 
Doones are much in earnest), ‘surely you 
count it no disgrace to be of kin to Sir En- 
sor Doone, and all his honest family !’ 

“ ‘ If it be so, it is in truth the very high- 


74 


LORNA DOONE. 


<3st honor, and would heal ten holes in our 
escutcheon. What noble family but springs 
from a captain among robbers ? Trade alone 
' can spoil our blood ; robbery purifies it. The 
robbery of one age is the chivalry of the next. 
We may start anew, and vie with even the 
nobility of France, if we can once enroll but 
half the Doones upon our lineage.’ 

“ ‘ 1 like not to hear you speak of the 
Doones as if they were no more than that,’ 
I exclaimed, being now unreasonable; ‘but 
will you tell me, once for all, sir, how you 
are my guardian V 

“ ‘ That I will do. You are my ward be- 
cause you were my father’s ward, under the 
Scottish law ; and now my father being so 
deaf, I have succeeded to that right — at 
least in my own opinion — under which 
claim I am here, to neglect my trust no long- 
er, but to lead you away from scenes and 
deeds which (though of good repute and 
comely) are not the best for young gentle- 
women. There, spoke I not like a guardian ? 
After that, can you mistrust me V 

“ ‘ But,’ said I, ‘good Cousin Alan (if I may 
so call you), it is not meet for young gentle- 
women to go away with young gentlemen, 
though fifty times their guardians. But if 
you will only come with me, and explain 
your tale to my grandfather, he. will listen 
to you quietly, and take no advantage of 
you.’ 

“ ‘ I thank you much, kind Mistress Lorna, 
to lead the goose into the fox’s den! But, 
setting by all thought of danger, I have oth- 
er reasons against it. Now, come with your 
faithful guardian, child. I will pledge my 
honor against all harm, and to bear you 
safe to London. By the law of the realm, 
I am now entitled to the custody of your 
fair person, and of all your chattels.’ 

“ ‘ But, sir, all that you have learned of 
law is how to live without it.’ 

“‘Fairly met, fair cousin mine! Your 
wit will do me credit, after a little sharpen- 
ing. And there is none to do that better 
than your aunt, my mother. Although she 
knows not of my coming, she is longing to 
receive you. Come, and in a few months’ 
time you shall set the mode at court, instead 
of pining here, and weaving coronals of dai- 
sies.’ 

“ I turned aside, and thought a little. Al- 
though he seemed so light of mind, and gay 
in dress and manner, I could not doubt his 
honesty, and saw beneath his jaunty air 
true mettle and ripe bravery. Scarce had 
I thought of his project twice, until he spoke 
of my aunt, his mother ; but then the form 
of my dearest friend, my sweet Aunt Sabina, 
seemed to come and bid me listen, for this 
■was what she prayed for. Moreover, I felt 
{though not as now) that Doone Glen was 
no place for me or any proud young maiden. 
But while I thought, the yellow lightning 
.-spread behind a bulk of clouds three times 


ere the flash was done, far off and void of 
thunder ; and from the pile of cloud before 
it, cut as from black paper, and lit to depths 
of blackness by the blaze behind it, a form 
as of an aged man, sitting in a chair loose- 
mantled, seemed to lift a hand and warn. 

“This minded me of my grandfather, and 
all the care I owed him. Moreover, now the 
storm was rising, and I began to grow afraid ; 
for of all things awful to me thunder is the 
dreadfulest. It doth so growl, like a lion 
coming, and then so roll, and roar, and rum- 
ble, out of a thickening darkness, then crack 
like the last trump overhead, through cloven 
air and terror, that all my heart lies low and 
quivers, like a weed in water. I listened now 
for the distant rolling of the great black 
storm, and heard it and was hurried by it. 
But the youth before me waved his rolled 
tobacco at it, and drawled in his daintiest 
tone and manner — 

“ ‘ The sky is having a smoke, I see, and 
dropping sparks, and grumbling. I should 
have thought these Exmoor hills too small 
to gather thunder.’ 

“ ‘ I can not go, I will not go with you, 
Lord Alan Brandir,’ I answered, being vex- 
ed a little by those words of his. ‘ You are 
not grave enough for me, you are not old 
enough for me. My Aunt Sabina would not 
have wished it ; nor would I leave my grand- 
father, without his full permission. I thank 
you much for coming, sir; but be gone at 
once by the way you came ; and pray how 
did you come, sir V 

“ ‘ Fair cousin, you will grieve for this ; 
you will mourn, when you can not mend it. 
I would my mother had been here ; soon 
would she have persuaded you. And yet,’ 
he added, with the smile of his accustomed 
gayety, ‘ it would have been an unco thing, 
as we say in Scotland, for her ladyship to 
have waited upon you, as her graceless sou 
has done, and hopes to do again ere long. 
Down the cliffs I came, and up them I must 
make way back again. Now adieu, fair 
Cousin Lorna, I see you are in haste to- 
night; but I am right proud of my guard- 
ianship. Give me just one flower for token’ 
— here he kissed his hand to me, and I threw 
him a truss of woodbine — ‘ adieu, fair cous- 
in, trust me well, I will soon be here again.’ 

“ ‘ That thou never slialt, sir,’ cried a voice 
as loud as a culverin ; and Carver Doone had 
Alan Brandir as a spider hath a fly. The 
boy made a little shriek at first, with the 
sudden shock and the terror; then he look- 
ed, methought, ashamed of himself, and set 
his face to fight for it. Very bravely he 
strove and struggled to free one arm and to 
grasp his sword ; but as well might an in- 
fant buried alive attempt to lift his grave- 
stone. Carver Doone, with his great arms 
wrapped around the slim gay body, smiled 
(as I saw by the flash from heaven) at the 
poor young face turned up to him ; then (as 


LORNA DOONE. 


75 


a nurse bears off a child who is loath to go 
to bed) he lifted the youth from his feet, and 
bore him away into the darkness. 

“I was young then. I am older now; 
older by ten years, in thought, although it 
is not a twelvemonth since. If that black 
deed were done again, I could follow, and 
could combat it — could throw weak arms 
on the murderer, and strive to be murdered 
also. I am now at home with violence ; and 
no dark death surprises me. 

“But, being as I was that night, the 
horror overcame me. The crash of thun- 
der overhead, the last despairing look, the 
death-piece framed with blaze of lightning 
— my young heart was so affrighted that I 
could not gasp. My breath went from me, 
and I knew not where I was, or who, or 
what. Only that I lay, and cowered, under 
great trees full of thunder ; and could nei- 
ther count, nor moan, nor have my feet to 
help me. 

“ Yet hearkening, as a coward does, through 
the brushing of the wiud, and echo of far 
noises, I heard a sharp sound as of iron, and 
a fall of heavy wood. No unmanly shriek 
came with it, neither cry for mercy. Carver 
Doone knows what it was ; and so did Alan 
Braudir.” 

Here Lorna Doone could tell no more, be- 
ing overcome with weeping. Only through 
her tears she whispered, as a thing too bad 
to tell, that she had seen that giant Carver, 
iu a few days afterward, smoking a little 
round brown stick, like those of her poor 
cousiu. I could not press her any more 
with questions, or for clearness ; although I 
longed very much to know whether she had 
spoken of it to her grandfather or the Coun- 
selor. But she was now in such condition, 
both of mind and body, from the force of her 
own fear multiplied by telliug it, that I did 
nothing more than coax her, at a distance 
humbly ; and so that she could see that some 
one was at least afraid of her. This (al- 
though I knew not women in those days, as 
now I do, and never shall know much of it), 
this, I say, so brought her round, that all her 
fear was now for me, and how to get me safe- 
ly off, without mischance to any one. And 
sooth to say, in spite of longing just to see 
if Master Carver could have served me such 
a trick, as it grew toward the dusk, I was 
not best pleased to be there ; for it seemed 
a lawless place, and some of Lorna’s fright 
staid with me as I talked it away from her. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A LONG SPRING MONTH. 

After hearing that tale from Lorna, I 
went home in sorry spirits, having added 
fear for her, and misery about, to all my 
other ailments. And was it not quite cer- 


tain now that she, being owned full cousin 
to a peer and lord of Scotland (although 
he was a dead one), must have naught to 
do with me, a yeoman’s son, and bound to 
be the father of more yeomen ? I had 
been very sorry when first I heard about 
that poor young popinjay, and would glad- 
ly have fought hard for him ; but now it 
struck me that after all he had no right to 
be there, prowling (as it were) for Lorna, 
without any invitation: and we farmers 
love not trespass. Still, if I had seen the 
thing, I must have tried to save him. 

Moreover, I was greatly vexed with my 
own hesitation, stupidity, or shyness, or 
whatever else it was, which had held me 
back from saying, ere she told her story, 
what was in my heart to say, videlicet, that 
I must die unless she let me love her. Not 
that I was fool enough to think that she 
would answer me according to my liking, or 
begin to care about me for a long time yet ; 
if indeed she ever should, which I hardly 
dared to hope. But that I had heard from 
men more skillful in the matter that it is 
wise to be in time, that so the maids may 
begin to think, when they know that they 
are thought of. And, to tell the truth, I 
had bitter fears, on account of her wondrous 
beauty, lest some young fellow of higher 
birth, and finer parts and finish, might steal 
in before poor me, and cut me out altogeth- 
er. Thinking of which, I used to double my 
great fist, without knowing it, and keep it 
in my pocket ready. 

But the worst of all was this, that in my 
great dismay and anguish to see Lorna weep- 
ing so, I had promised not to cause her any 
further trouble from anxiety aud fear of 
harm. And this, being brought to practice, 
meant that I was not to show myself with- 
in the precincts of Glen Doone for at least 
another month. Unless indeed (as I con- 
trived to edge into the agreement) any thing 
should happen to increase her present trou- 
ble and every day’s uneasiness. In that case, 
she was to throw a dark mantle, or covering 
of some sort, over a large white stone which 
hung within the entrance to her retreat — I 
mean the outer entrance — and which, though 
unseen from the valley itself, was (as I had 
observed) conspicuous from the height where 
I stood with Uncle Reuben. 

Now, coming home so sad aud weary, yet 
trying to console myself with the thought 
that love o’erleapeth rank, and must still 
be lord of all, I found a shameful thing go- 
ing on, which made me very angry. For it 
needs must happen that young Marwood de 
Whichehalse, only son of the Baron, riding 
home that very evening, from chasing of 
the Exmoor bustards, with his hounds and 
serving -men, should take the short cut 
through our farm-yard, and being dry from 
Lis exercise, should come and ask for drink. 
Aud it needs must happen also that there 


76 


LOKNA DOONE. 


should be none to give it to him but my sis- 
ter Annie. I more than suspect that he had 
heard some report of our Annie’s comeliness, 
and had a mind to satisfy himself upon the 
subject. Now, as he took the large ox-horn 
of our quarantine-apple cider (which we al- 
ways keep apart from the rest, being too 
good except for the quality), he let his fin- 
gers dwell on Annie’s, by some sort of acci- 
dent, while he lifted his beaver gallantly, 
and gazed on her face in the light from the 
west. Then what did Annie do (as she her- 
self told me afterward) but make her very 
best courtesy to him, being pleased that he 
was pleased with her, while she thought 
what a fine young man he was, and so much 
breeding about him ! And in truth he was 
a dark, handsome fellow, hasty, reckless, 
and changeable, with a look of sad destiny 
in his black eyes that would make any wom- 
an pity him. What he was thinking of 
our Annie is not for me to say, although I 
may think that you could not have found 
another such maiden on Exmoor, except (of 
course) my Lorna. 

Though young Squire Marwood was so 
thirsty, he spent much time over his cider, 
or at any rate over the ox-horn, and he made 
many bows to Annie, and drank health to 
all the family, and spoke of me as if I had 
been his very best friend at Blundell’s; 
whereas he knew well enough all the time 
that we had naught to say to one another ; 
he being three years older, and therefore of 
course disdaining me. But while he was 
casting about, perhaps, for some excuse to 
stop longer, and Annie was beginning to fear 
lest mother should come after her, or Eliza 
be at the window, or Betty up in pigs’ house, 
suddenly there came up to them, as if from 
the very heart of the earth, that long, low, 
hollow, mysterious sound which I spoke of 
in the winter. 

The young man started in his saddle, let 
the horn fall on the horse-steps, and gazed 
all around in wonder; while as for Annie, 
she turned like a ghost, and tried to slam 
the door, but failed through the violence of 
her trembling ; for never till now had any 
one heard it so close at hand (as you might 
say), or in the mere fall of the twilight. 
And hy this time there was no man, at least 
in our parish, but knew — for the Parson 
himself had told us so — that it was the dev- 
il groaning because the Doones were too 
many for him. 

Marwood de Whichehalse was not so 
alarmed but what he saw a fine opportunity. 
He leaped from his horse, and laid hold of 
dear Annie in a highly comforting manner ; 
and she never would tell us about it (being 
so shy and modest), whether in breathing 
his comfort to her he tried to take some 
from her pure lips. I hope he did not, be- 
cause that to me would seem not the deed of 
a gentleman, and he was of good old family. 


At this very moment, who should come in 
to the end of the passage upon them but the 
heavy writer of these doings, I, John Kidd 
myself, and walking the faster, it may be, 
on account of the noise I mentioned. I en- 
tered the house with some wrath upon me 
at seeing the gazehounds in the yard ; for it 
seems a cruel thing to me to harass the birds 
in the breeding-time. And to my amaze- 
ment there I saw Squire Marwood among 
the milk-pans with his arm around our 
Annie’s waist, and Annie all blushing and 
coaxing him off, for she was not come to 
scold yet. 

Perhaps I was wrong; God knows, and if 
I was, no doubt I shall pay for it. ; but I gave 
him the flat of my hand on his head, and 
down he went in the thick of the milk-pans. 
He would have had my fist, I doubt, but for 
having been at school with me ; and after 
that it is like enough he would never have 
spoken another word. As it was, he lay 
stunned, with the cream runniug on him ; 
while I took poor Annie up and carried her 
in to mother, who had heard the noise and 
was frightened. 

Concerning this matter I asked no more, 
but held myself ready to bear it out in any 
form convenient, feeling that I had done my 
duty, and cared not for the consequence; 
only for several days dear Annie seemed 
frightened rather than grateful. But the 
oddest result of it was that Eliza, who had 
so despised me, and made very rude verses 
about me, now came trying to sit on my 
knee, and kiss me, and give me the best of 
the pan. However, I would not allow it, 
because I hate sudden changes. 

Another thing also astonished me — name- 
ly, a beautiful letter from Marwood de Which- 
ehalse himself (sent by a groom soon after- 
ward), in which he apologized to me, as if I 
had been his equal, for his rudeness to my 
sister, which was not intended in the least, 
but came of their common alarm at the mo- 
ment, and his desire to comfort her. Also 
he begged permission to come and see me, 
as an old school-fellow, and set every thing 
straight between us, as should be among hon- 
est Blundelites. 

All this was so different to my idea of fight- 
ing out a quarrel, when once it is upon a man, 
that I knew not what to make of it, but bowed, 
to higher breeding. Only one thing I resolved 
upon, that come when he would he should 
not see Annie. And to do my sister justice,, 
she had no desire to see him. 

However, I am too easy, there is no doubt 
of that, being very quick to forgive a man, 
and very slow to suspect, unless he hath once 
lied to me. Moreover, as to Annie, it had al- 
ways seemed to me (much against my wishes) 
that some shrewd love of a waiting sort was 
between her and Tom Faggus : and though 
Tom had made his fortune now, and every 
body respected him, of course he was not to 


LORNA DOONE. 


77 


be compared, in that point of respectability, 
with those people who hanged the robbers 
when fortune turned against them. 

So young Squire Marwood came again, as 
though I had never smitten him, and spoke 
of it in as light a way as if we were still at 
school together. It was not in my nature, 
of course, to keep any anger against him ; 
and I knew what a condescension it was for 
him to visit us. And it is a very grievous 
thing, •which touches small land-ownei^, to 
see an ancient family day by day decaying : 
and when we heard that Ley Barton itself, 
and all the Manor of Lynton, were under a 
heavy mortgage debt to John Lovering, of 
Weare-Gifford, there was not much, in our 
little way that we would not gladly do or 
suffer for the benefit of De Whichehalse. 

Meanwhile the work of the farm was to- 
ward, and every day gave us more ado to 
dispose of what itself was doiug. For after 
the long dry, skeltering wind of March and 
part of April, there had been a fortnight of 
soft wet ; and when the sun came forth again, 
hill and valley, wood and meadow, could not 
make enough of him. Many a spring have 
I seen since then, but never yet two springs 
alike, and never one so beautiful. Or was 
it that my love came forth and touched the 
world with beauty ? 

The spring was in our valley now, creep- 
ing first for shelter shyly in the pause of the 
blustering wind. There the lambs came 
bleating to her, and the orchis lifted up, and 
the thin dead leaves of clover lay for the new 
ones to spring through. Then the stiffest 
things that sleep, the stubby oak, and the 
saplin’d beech, dropped their brown defiauce 
to her, and prepared for a soft reply. While 
her overeager children (who had started 
forth to meet her, through the frost and show- 
er of sleet), catkin’d hazel, gold-gloved withy, 
youthful elder, and old woodbine, with all 
the tribe of good hedge-climbers (who must 
hasten while haste they may) — was there 
one of them that did not claim the merit of 
coming first? 

There she staid and held her revel, as soon 
as the fear of frost was gone ; all the air was 
a fount of freshness, and the earth of glad- 
ness, and the laughing- waters prattled of 
the kindness of the sun. 

But all this made it much harder for us, 
plying the hoe and rake, to keep the fields 
with room upon them for the corn to tiller. 
The winter wheat was well enough, being 
sturdy and strong - sided ; but the spring 
wheat and the barley and the oats were over- 
run by ill weeds growing faster. Therefore, 
as the old saying is, 

“Farmer, that thy wife may thrive, 

Let not burr and burdock wive; 

And if thou wouldst keep thy son, 

See that bine and gith have none.” 

So we were compelled to go down the field 
and up it, striking in and out with care 


where the green blades hung together, so 
that each had space to move in and to spread 
its roots abroad. And I do assure you now, 
though you may not believe me, it was hard- 
er work to keep John Fry, Bill Dadds, and 
Jem Slocomb all in a line, and all moving 
nimbly to the tune of my own tool, than it 
was to set out in the morning alone, and hoe 
half an acre by dinner-time. For, instead 
of keeping the good ash moving, they would 
forever be finding something to look at or to 
speak of, or at any rate to stop with ; blam- 
ing the shape of their tools, perhaps, or talk- 
ing about other people’s affairs ; or what was 
most irksome of all to me, taking advantage 
as married men, and whispering jokes of no 
excellence about my having, or having not, 
or being ashamed of a sweetheart. And this 
went so far at last, that I was forced to take 
two of them and knock their heads together ; 
after which they worked with a better will. 

When we met together in the evening 
round the kitchen chimney-place, after the 
men had had their supper and their heavy 
boots were gone, my mother and Eliza would 
do their very utmost to learn what I was 
thinking of. Not that we kept any fire 
now, after the crock was emptied ; but that 
we loved to see the ashes cooling, and to be 
together. At these times Annie would nev- 
er ask me any crafty questions (as Eliza 
did), but would sit with her hair untwined, 
and one hand underneath her chin, some- 
times looking softly at me, as much as to 
say that she knew it all, and I was no worse 
off than she. But strange to say, my moth- 
er dreamed not, even for an instant, that it 
was possible for Annie to be thinking of 
such a thing. She was so very good and 
quiet, careful of the linen, and clever about 
the cookery and fowls and bacon - curing, 
that people used to laugh, and say she 
would never look at a bachelor until her 
mother ordered her. But I (perhaps from 
my own condition and the sense of what it 
was) felt no certainty about this, and even 
had another opinion, as was said before. 

Often I was much inclined to speak to her 
about it, and put her on her guard against 
the ax>proaches of Tom Faggus ; but I could 
not find how to begin, and feared to mako 
a breach between us; knowing that if her 
mind was set, no words of mine would al- 
ter it ; although they needs must grieve her 
deeply. Moreover, I felt that in this case 
a certain homely Devonshire proverb would 
come home to me; that one, I mean, which 
records that the crock was calling the ket- 
tle smutty. Not, of course, that I compared 
my innocent maid to a highwayman ; but 
that Annie might think her worse, and 
would be too apt to do so, if indeed she 
loved Tom Faggus. And our cousin Tom, 
by this time, was living a quiet and godly 
life ; having retired almost from the trade 
(except when he needed excitement or came 


78 


LORNA DOONE. 


across public officers), and having won the es- 
teem of all whose purses were in his power. 

Perhaps it is needless for me to say that 
all this time, while my month was running 
— or rather crawling, for never month went 
so slow as that with me — neither weed, nor 
seed, nor cattle, nor my own mother’s anx- 
iety, nor any care for my sister, kept me 
from looking once every day, and even twice 
on a Sunday, for any sign of Lorua. For 
my heart was ever weary ; in the budding 
valleys, and by the crystal waters, looking 
at the lambs in fold, or the heifers on the 
hill, laboring in trickled furrows, or among 
the beaded blades ; halting fresh to see the 
sun lift over the golden-vapored ridge; or 
doffing hat, from sweat of brow, to watch 
him sink in the low gray sea; be it as it 
would of day, of work, of night, or slumber, 
it was a weary heart I bore, and fear was 
on the brink of it. 

All the beauty of the spring went for hap- 
py men to think of ; all the increase of the 
year was for other eyes to mark. Not a 
sign of any sunrise for me from my fount of 
life ; not a breath to stir the dead leaves fall- 
en on my heart’s spring. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A ROYAL INVITATION. 

Although I had, for the most part, so 
very stout an appetite that none but moth- 
er saw auy need of encouraging me to eat, I 
could only manage one true good meal in a 
day, at the time I speak of. Mother was 
in despair at this, and tempted me with the 
whole of the rack, and even talked of send- 
ing to Porlock for a druggist who came 
there twice iu a week ; and Annie spent all 
her time in cooking; and even Lizzie sang 
songs to me ; for she could sing very sweet- 
ly. But my conscience told me that Betty 
Muxworthy had some reason upon her side. 

“ Latt the young ozebird aloun, zay I. 
Makk zuch ado about un, wi’ hogs’-puddens, 
and hock-bits, and lambs’-mate, and whaten 
bradd indade, and brewers’ ale avore dinner- 
time, and her not to zit wi’ no winder aupeu 
— draive me mad ’e doo, the lot ov’ee, zuch 
a passel of voouls. Do’ un good to starve a 
bit, and takk zome on’s wackedness out ov 
un.” 

But mother did not see it so ; and she 
even sent for Nicholas Snowe to bring his 
three daughters with him, aud have ale and 
cake iu the parlor, and advise about what 
the bees were doiug, and when a swarm 
might be looked for. Being vexed about 
this, and having to stop at home nearly half 
the evening, I lost good manners so much 
as to ask him (even in our own house!) what 
he meant by not mending the swing-hurdle 
where the Lynn stream hows from our land 


into his, and which he is bound to maintain. 
But he looked at me in a superior manner, 
and said, “ Business, young man, in business 
time.” 

I had other reason for being vexed with 
Farmer Nicholas just now, viz., that I had 
heard a rumor, after church one Sunday — * 
when most of all we sorrow over the sins of 
one another — that Master Nicholas Snowe 
had been seen to gaze tenderly at my moth- 
er, during a passage of the sermon, wherein 
the parson spoke well and warmly about the 
duty of Christian love. Now, putting one 
thing with another, about the bees, and 
about some ducks, and a bullock with a 
broken knee-cap, I more than suspected that 
Farmer Nicholas was casting sheep’s eyes 
at my mother ; not only to save all further 
trouble in the matter of the hurdle, but to 
override me altogether upon the difficult 
question of damming. And I knew quite 
well that John Fry’s wife never came to 
help at the washing without declaring that 
it was a sin for a well-looking womau like 
mother, with plenty to live on, and only 
three children, to keep all the farmers for 
miles around so unsettled in their minds 
about her. Mother used to answer, “ Oh fie, 
Mistress Fry ! be good enough to mind your 
own business.” But we always saw that 
she smoothed her apron, aud did her hair up 
afterward, and that Mistress Fry went home 
at night with a cold pig’s foot or a bowl of 
dripping. 

Therefore, on that very night, as I could 
not well speak to mother about it, without 
seeming undutiful, after lighting the three 
young ladies — for so in sooth they called 
themselves — all the way home with our sta- 
ble-lantern, I begged good leave of Farmer 
Nicholas (who had hung some way behind 
us) to say a word in private to him before 
he entered his own house. 

“ Wi’ all the plaisure in laife, my zon,” he 
answered, very graciously, thinking perhaps 
that I was prepared to speak concerning 
Sally. 

“Now, Farmer Nicholas Snowe,” I said, 
scarce knowing how to begin it, “ you must 
promise not to be vexed with me, for what 
I am going to say to you.” 

“ Yaxed wi’ thee ! Noo, noo, my lad. I 
’ave a-knowed thee too long for that. And 
thy veyther were my best friend, avore thee. 
Never wronged his neighbors, never spak an 
unkind word, never had no maneness in him. 
Tuk a vancy to a nice young ’oomau, and 
never kep her in doubt about it, though 
there wadn’t mooch to zettle on her. Spak 
his maind laike a man, he did ; and right 
happy he were wi’ her. Ah, well-a-day ! 
Ah, God knoweth best. I never shall zee 
his laike again. And he were the best judge 
of a dung-heap anywhere in this county.” 

“Well, Master Snowe,” I answered him, 
“it is very handsome of you to say so. And 


LORNA DOONE. 


79 


now I am going to be like my father, I am 
going to speak my mind.” 

“ Raight there, lad ; raight enough, I reck- 
on. Us has had enough of pralimbinary.” 

“Then what I want to say is this — I 
won’t have any one courting my mother.” 

“ Coortin’ of thy mother, lad ?” cried Farm- 
er Snowe, with as much amazement as if the 
thing were impossible ; “ why, who ever hath 
been doom’ of it ?” 

“ Yes, courting of my mother, sir. And 
you kuow best who comes doing it.” 

“Wull, wull ! What will boys be up to 
next? Zliud a’ thought herzelf wor the 
proper judge. No thank ee’, lad, no need of 
thy light. Know the wai to my own door, 
at laste ; and have a raight to goo there.” 
And he shut me out without so much as of- 
fering me a drink of cider. 

The next afternoon, when work was over, 
I had seen to the horses, for now it was fool- 
ish to trust John Fry, because he had so 
many children, and his wife had taken to 
scolding; and just as I was saying to my- 
self that in five days more my month would 
be done, and myself free to seek Lorna, a 
man came riding up from the ford where 
the road goes through the Lynn stream. 
As soon as I saw that it was not Tom Fag- 
gus, I went no farther to meet him, count- 
ing that it must be some traveler bound for 
Brendon or Cheriton, and likely enough he 
would come and beg for a draught of milk 
or cider; and then on again, after asking 
the way. 

But instead of that, he stopped at our 
gate, and stood up from his saddle, and hal- 
looed as if he w T ere somebody ; and all the 
time he was flourishing a white thing in 
the air, like the bands our parson weareth. 
So I crossed the court-yard to speak with 
him. 

“ Service of the King !” he saith ; “ service 
of our lord the King! Come hither, thou 
great yokel, at risk of fine and imprison- 
ment.” 

Although not pleased with this, I went 
to him, as became a loyal man ; quite at my 
leisure, however, for there is no man born 
who can hurry me, though I hasten for any 
woman. 

“ Plover Barrows farm !” said he ; “ God 
only knows how tired I be. Is there any- 
where in this cursed county a cursed place 
called ‘ Plover Barrows farm ? 7 For last 
twenty mile at least they told me ’twere 
only half a mile farther, or only just round 
corner. Now tell me that, and I fain would 
thwack thee, if thou wert not thrice my 
size.” 

“ Sir,” I replied, “ you shall not have the 
trouble. This is Plover Barrows farm, and 
you are kindly welcome. Sheep’s kidneys 
is for supper, and the ale got bright from 
the tapping. But why do you think ill of 
us ? We like not to be cursed so.” 


“Nay, I think no ill,” he said; “sheep’s 
kidneys is good, uncommon good, if they do 
them wdthout burning. But I be so galled 
in the saddle ten days, and never a comely 
meal of it. And when they hear 1 King’s 
service’ cried, they give me the w r orst of ev- 
ery thing. All the way down from London,, 
I had a rogue of a fellow in front of mo, eat- 
ing the fat of the land before me, and ev- 
ery one bowing down to him. He could 
go three miles to my one, though he never 
changed his horse. He might have robbed 
me at any minute, if I had been worth the 
trouble. A red mare he rideth, strong in 
the loins, and pointed quite small in the 
head. I shall live to see him hanged yet.” 

All this time he was riding across the 
straw of our court-yard, getting his weary 
legs out of the leathers, and almost afraid 
to stand yet. A coarse-grained, hard-faced 
man he was, some forty years of age or so, 
and of middle height and stature. He was 
dressed in a dark brown riding -suit, none 
the better for Exmoor mud, but fitting him 
very differently from the fashion of our tai- 
lors. Across the holsters lay his cloak, made 
of some red skin, and shining from the 
sweating of the horse. As I looked down on 
his stiff bright head-piece, small quick eyes, 
and black needly beard, he seemed to de- 
spise me (too much, as I thought) for a mere 
ignoramus and country bumpkin. 

“Annie, have down the cut ham,” I 
shouted, for my sister was come to the door 
by chance, or because of the sound of a horse 
in the road, “ and cut a few rashers of hung 
deer’s meat. There is a gentleman come to 
sup, Annie. And fetch the hops out of the 
tap with a skewer, that it may run more 
sparkling.” 

“ I wish I may go to a place never meant 
for me,” said my new friend, now wiping 
his mouth with the sleeve of his brown rid- 
ing-coat, “if ever I fell among such good 
folk. You are the right sort, and no error 
therein. All this shall go in your favor 
greatly, when I make deposition. At least, 
I mean, if it be as good in the eating as in 
the hearing. ’Tis a supper quite fit for Tom 
Faggus himself, the man who hath stolen 
my victuals so. And that hung deer’s meat, 
now is it of the red deer running wild in 
these parts ?” 

“ To be sure it is, sir,” I answered ; “ where 
should we get any other ?” 

“Right, right, you are right, my son. I 
have heard that the flavor is marvelous. 
Some of them came and scared me so, in the 
fog of the morning, that I hungered for them 
ever since. Ha, ha, I saw their haunches. 
But the young lady will not forget — art 
sure she will not forget it ?” 

“ You may trust her to forget nothing, sir, 
that may tempt a guest to his comfort.” 

“ In faith, then, I will leave my horse in 
your hands, and be off for it. Half the 


80 


LORNA DOONE. 


pleasure of tlie mouth is iu the nose before- 
hand. But stay, almost I forgot my busi- 
ness, in the hurry which thy tongue hath 
spread through my lately despairing belly. 
Hungry I am, and sore of body, from my 
heels right upward, and sorest in front of 
my doublet; yet may I not rest nor bite 
barley-bread until I have seen and touched 
John Ridd. God grant that he be not far 
away ; I must eat my saddle, if it be so.” 

“Have no fear, good sir,” I answered; 
u you have seen and touched John Ridd. I 
am he, and not one likely to go beneath a 
bushel.” 

“ It would take a large bushel to hold 
thee, John Ridd. In the name of the King, 
His Majesty, Charles the Second, these pres- 
ents !” 

He touched me with the white thing which 
I had first seen him waving, and which I 
now beheld to be sheep-skin, such as they 
call parchment. It was tied across with 
oord, and fastened down in every corner 
with unsightly dabs of wax. By order of 
the messenger (for I was overfrightened 
now to think of doing any thing), I broke 
enough of seals to keep an Easter ghost 
from rising ; and there I saw my name in 
large ; God grant such another shock may 
never befall me in my old age. 

“ Read, my son ; read, thou great fool, if 
indeed thou canst read,” said the officer, 
to encourage me ; “ there is nothing to kill 
thee, boy, and my supper will be spoiling. 
Stare not at me so, thou fool; thou art big 
enough to eat me ; read, read, read.” 

“ If you please, sir, what is your name ?” 
I asked : though why I asked him I know 
not, except from fear of witchcraft. 

“ Jeremy Stickles is my name, lad ; noth- 
ing more than a poor apparitor of the wor- 
shipful Court of King’s Bench. And at this 
moment a starving one, and no supper for 
me unless thou wilt read.” 

Being compelled in this way, I read pretty 
nigh as follows ; not that I give the whole 
of it, but only the gist and the emphasis : 

“ To our good subject, John Ridd, etc.” — 
describing me ever so much better than I 
knew myself — “ by these presents, greeting. 
These are to require thee, in the name of 
our lord the King, to appear in person be- 
fore the Right Worshipful the Justices of 
His Majesty’s Bench at Westminster, layiug 
aside all thine own business, and there to 
deliver such evidence as is within thy cog- 
nizance, touching certain matters whereby 
the peace of our said lord the King, and the 
well-being of this realm, is, are, or other- 
wise may be impeached, impugned, imper- 
iled, or otherwise detrimented. As witness 
these presents.” And then there were four 
seals, and then a signature I could not make 
out, only that it began with a J, and ended 
with some other writing, done almost in a 
circle. Underneath was added in a different 


handwriting, “ Charges will be borne. The 
matter is full urgent.” 

The messenger watched me while I read 
so much as I could read of it ; and he seem- 
ed well pleased with my surprise, because 
he had expected it. Then, not knowing 
what else to do, I looked again at the cov- 
er, and on the top of it I saw, “ Ride, Ride, 
Ride ! On His Gracious Majesty’s business; 
spur and spare not.” 

It may be supposed by all who know me, 
that I was taken hereupon with such a gid- 
diness in my head and noisiness in my ears, 
that I was forced to hold by the crook driven 
in below the thatch for holding of the hay- 
rakes. There was scarcely any sense left in 
me, only that the thing was come by power 
of Mother Melldrum, because I despised her 
warning, and had again sought Lorna. But 
the officer was grieved for me, and the dan- 
ger to his supper. 

“ My son, be not afraid,” he said ; “ we 
are not going to skin thee. Only thou tell 
all the truth, and it shall be — but never 
mind, I will tell thee all about it, and how 
to come out harmless, if I find thy victuals 
good, and no delay in serving them.” 

“We do our best, sir, without bargain,” 
said I, “ to please our visitors.” 

But when my mother saw that parchment 
(for we could not keep it from her ) she fell 
away into her favorite bed of stock gilly- 
flowers, which she had been tending ; and 
when we brought her round again, did noth- 
ing but exclaim against the wickedness of 
the age and people. “ It was useless to tell 
her; she knew what it was, and so should 
all the parish know. The King had heard 
what her son was, how sober, and quiet, and 
diligent, and the strongest young man in 
England; and being himself such a repro- 
bate — God forgive her for saying so — he 
could never rest till he got poor Johnny, 
and made him as dissolute as himself. And 
if he did that ” — here mother went off into 
a fit of crying ; and Annie minded her face, 
while Lizzie saw that her gown was in 
comely order. 

But the character of the King improved, 
when Master Jeremy Stickles (being really 
moved by the look of it, and no bad man 
after all) laid it clearly before my mother 
that the King on his throne was unhap- 
py, until he had seen John Ridd. That the 
fame of John had gone so far, and his size, 
and all his virtues — that verily by the God 
who made him, the King was overcome with 
it. 

Then mother lay back in her garden-chair, 
and smiled upon the whole of us, and most 
of all on Jeremy ; looking only shyly on me, 
and speaking through some break of tears. 
“His Majesty shall have my John; His Maj- 
esty is very good : but only for a fortnight. I 
want no titles for him. J ohnny is enough for 
me ; and Master John for the working-men.” 


LORNA 

Now, though my mother was so willing 
that I should go to London, expecting great 
promotion and high glory for me, I myself 
was deeply gone into the pit of sorrow. For 
what would Lorna think of me ? Here was 
the long month just expired, after worlds 
of waiting ; there would be her lovely self, 
peeping softly down the glen, and fearing to 
encourage me ; yet there would be nobody 
else, and what an insult to her? Dwelling 
upon this, and seeing no chance of escape 
from it, I could not find one wink of sleep ; 
though Jeremy Stickles (who slept close by) 
snored loud enough to spare me some. For 
I felt myself to be, as it were, in a place of 
some importance ; in a situation of trust, I 
may say ; and bound not to depart from it. 
For who could tell what the King might 
have to say to me about the Doones — and I 
felt that they were at the bottom of this 
strange appearance — or what his Majesty 
might think, if after receiving a message 
from him (trusty under so many seals), I 
were to violate his faith in me as a church- 
warden’s son, and falsely spread his words 
abroad? 

Perhaps I was not wise in building such a 
wall of scruples. Nevertheless, all that was 
there, and weighed upon me heavily. And 
at last I made up my mind to this, that even 
Lorna must not know the reason of my go- 
ing, neither any thing about it ; but that she 
might know I was gone a long way from 
home, and perhaps be sorry for it. Now 
how was I to let her know even that much 
of the matter, without breaking compact ? 

Puzzling on this, I fell asleep, after the 
proper time to get uj) ; nor was I to be seen 
at breakfast-time; and mother (being quite 
strange to that) was very uneasy about it. 
But Master Stickles assured her that the 
King’s writ often had that effect, and the 
symptom was a good one. 

“Now, Master Stickles, when must we 
start ?” I asked him, as he lounged in the 
yard gazing at our turkey poults picking 
and running in the sun to the tune of their 
father’s gobble. “Your horse was greatly 
foundered, sir, and is hardly fit for the road 
to-day ; and Smiler was sledding yesterday 
all up the higher Cleve; and none of the 
rest can carry me.” 

“ In a few more years,” replied the King’s 
officer, contemplating me with much satis- 
faction ; “ ’twill be a cruelty to any horse to 
put thee on his back, John.” 

Master Stickles, by this time, was quite 
familiar with us, calling me “Jack,” and 
Eliza “Lizzie,” and what I liked the least 
of all, our pretty Annie “ Nancy,” 

“ That will be as God pleases, sir,” I an- 
swered him, rather sharply ; “ and the horse 
that suffers will not be thine. But I wish 
to know when we must start upon our long 
.travel to London town. I perceive that 

6 


DOONE. 81 

the matter is of great dispatch and ur. 

gency.” 

“ To be sure, so it is, my son. But I see 
a yearling turkey there, him I mean with 
the hop in his walk, who (if I know aught 
of fowls) would roast well to-morrow. Thy 
mother must have preparation: it is no 
more than reasonable. Now, have that tur- 
key killed to-night (for his fatness makes 
me long for .him), and we will have him for 
dinner to-morrow, with, perhaps, one of his 
brethren ; and a few more collops of red 
deer’s flesh for supper ; and then on the Fri- 
day morning, with the grace of God, we will 
set our faces to the road, upon His Majesty’s 
business.” 

“Nay, but good sir,” I asked with some 
trembling, so eager was I to see Lorna ; “ if 
His Majesty’s business will keep till Friday, 
may it not keep until Monday ? We have 
a litter of sucking-pigs, excellently choice 
and white, six weeks old, come Friday. 
There be too many for the sow, and one 
of them needeth roasting. Think you not 
it would be a pity to leave the women to 
carve it ?” 

“My son Jack,” replied Master Stickles, 
“ never was I in such quarters yet : and God 
forbid that I should be so unthankful to 
him as to hurry away. And now I think 
on it, Friday is not a day upon which pious 
people love to commence an enterprise. I 
will choose the young pig to-morrow at 
noon, at which time they are wont to gam- 
bol ; and we will celebrate his birthday by 
carving him on Friday. After that we will 
gird our loins, and set forth early on Satur- 
day.” 

Now this was little better to me than if 
we had set forth at once, Sunday being the 
very first day upon which it would be hon- 
orable for me to enter Glen Doone. But 
though I tried every possible means with 
Master Jeremy Stickles, offering him the 
choice for dinner of every beast that was on 
the farm, he durst not put off our departure 
later than the Saturday. And nothing else 
but love of us and of our hospitality would 
have so persuaded him to remain with us 
till then. Therefore now my only chance 
of seeing Lorna before I went lay in watch- 
ing from the cliff and espying her, or a sig- 
nal from her. 

This, however, I did in vain, until my eyes 
were weary, and often would delude them- 
selves with hope of what they ached for. 
But though I lay hidden behind the trees 
upon the crest of the stony fall, and waited 
so quiet that the rabbits and squirrels play- 
ed around me, and even the keen-eyed wea- 
sel took me for a trunk of wood — it was all 
as one ; no cast of color changed the white 
stone, whose whiteness now was hateful to 
me ; nor did wreath or skirt of maiden break 
the loneliness of the vale. 


82 


LORNA DOONE. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

A SAFE PASS FOR KING’S MESSENGER. 

A journey to London seemed to ns in 
those by-gone days as hazardous and dark 
an adventure as could be forced on any man. 
I mean, of course, a poor man ; for to a great 
nobleman with ever so many outriders, at- 
tendants, and retainers, the risk was not so 
great, unless the highwaymen knew of their 
coming beforehand, and so combined against 

them. To a poor man, however, the risk 
was not so much from those gentlemen of 
the road as from the more ignoble footpads, 
and the landlords of the lesser hostels, and 
the loose, unguarded soldiers, over and above 
the pitfalls and the quagmires of the way ; 
so that it was hard to settle, at the first out- 
going, whether a man were wise to pray 
more for his neck or for his head. 

But nowadays it is very different. Not 
that highwaymen are scarce in this the 
reign of our good Queen Anne ; for in truth 
they thrive as well as ever, albeit they de- 
serve it not, being less upright and courte- 
ous — but that the roads are much improved, 
and the growing use of stage- wagons (some 
of which will travel as much as forty miles 
in a summer day) has turned our ancient 
ideas of distance almost upside down ; and 
I doubt whether God be pleased with our 
flying so fast away from him. However, 
that is not my business ; nor does it lie in 
my mouth to speak very strongly upon the 
subject, seeing how much I myself have done 
toward making of roads upon Exmoor. 

To return to my story (and, in truth, I lose 
that road too often), it would have taken ten 
King’s messengers to get me away from Plo- 
ver’s Barrows without one good-bye to Lor- 
na, but for my sense of the trust and reli- 
ance which His Majesty had reposed in me. 
And now I felt most bitterly how the very 
arrangements which seemed so wise, and 
indeed ingenious, may by the force of events 
become our most fatal obstacles. For lo ! 
I was blocked entirely from going to see 
Lorna; whereas we should have fixed it so 
that I as well might have the power of sig- 
naling my necessity. 

It was too late now to think of that ,* and 
so I made up my mind at last to keep my 
honor on both sides, both to the King and 
to the maiden, although I might lose every 
thing except a heavy heart for it. And in- 
deed more hearts than mine were heavy; 
for when it came to the tug of parting, my 
mother was like, and so was Annie, to break 
down altogether. But I bade them be of 
good cheer, and smiled in the briskest man- 
ner upon them, and said that I should be 
back next week as one of His Majesty’s great- 
est captains, and told them not to fear me 

then. Upon which they smiled at the idea 
of ever being afraid of me, whatever dress I 
might have on; and so I kissed my hand 


once more, and rode away very bravely. 
But bless your heart, I could no more hav& 
done so than flown all the way to London 
if Jeremy Stickles had not been there. 

And not to take too much credit to myself 
in this matter, I must confess that when we 
were come to the turn of the road where the 
moor begins, and whence you see the last of 
the yard, and the ricks and the poultry round 
them, and can (by knowing the place) obtain 
a glance of the kitchen window under the 
walnut-tree, it went so hard with me just 
here that I even made pretense of a stone 
in ancient Smiler’s shoe, to dismount, and to 
bend my head a while. Then, knowing that 
those I had left behind would be watching 
to see the last of me, and might have false 
hopes of my coming back, I mounted again 
with all possible courage, and rode after 
Jeremy Stickles. 

Jeremy, seeing how much I was down, did 
his best to keep me up with jokes, and tales, 
and light discourse, until, before we had rid- 
den a league, I began to long to see the things- 
he was describing. The air, the weather, and 
the thoughts of going to a wondrous place, 
added to the fine company — at least so Jere- 
my said it was — of a man who knew all Lon- 
don, made me feel that I should be ungra- 
cious not to laugh a little. And being very 
simple then, I laughed no more a little, but 
something quite considerable (though free 
from consideration), at the strange things 
Master Stickles told me, and his strange 
way of telling them. And so we became 
very excellent friends, for he was much 
pleased with my. laughing. 

Not wishing to thrust myself more forward 
than need be in this narrative, I have scarce- 
ly thought it becoming or right to speak of 
my own adornments. But now, what with 
the brave clothes I had on, and the better 
ones still that were packed up in the bag be- 
hind the saddle, it is almost beyond me to 
forbear saying that I must have looked very 
pleasing. And many a time I wished, going 
along, that Lorna could only be here and 
there, watching behind a furze-bush, looking 
at me, and wondering how much my clothes 
had cost. For mother would have no stint in 
the matter, but had assembled at our house, 
immediately upon knowledge of what was to 
be about London, every man known to be a 
good stitcher upon our side of Exmoor. And 
for three days they had worked their best, 
without stint of beer or cider, according to 
the constitution of each. The result, so they 
all declared, was such as to create admira- 
tion, and defy competition in London. And 
to me it seemed that they were quite right ; 
though Jeremy Stickles turned up his nose, 
and feigned to be deaf in the business. 

Now be that matter as you please — for 
the point is not worth arguing — certain it 
is that my appearance was better than it 
had been before. For being in the best 


LORNA DOONE. 


83 


clothes, one tries to look and to act (so far 
as may be) up to the quality of them. Not 
only for the fear of soiling them, but that 
they enlarge a man’s perception of his val- 
ue. And it strikes me that our sins arise, 
partly from disdain of others, but mainly 
from contempt of self, both working the de- 
spite of God. But men of mind may not be 
measured by such paltry rule as this. 

By dinner-time we arrived at Porlock, and 
dined with my old friend, Master Pooke, now 
growing rich and portly. For though we 
had plenty of victuals with us, we were not 
to begin upon them until all chance of vict- 
ualing among our friends was left behind. 
And during that first day we had no need 
to meddle with our store at all ; for, as had 
been settled before we left home, we lay that 
night at Dunster in the house of a worthy 
tanner, first cousin to my mother, who re- 
ceived us very cordially, and undertook to 
return old Smiler to his stable at Plover’s 
Barrows, after one day’s rest. 

Thence we hired to Bridgewater; and 
from Bridgewater on to Bristowe, breaking 
the journey between the two. But although 
the whole way was so new to me, and such a 
perpetual source of conflict, that the remem- 
brance still abides with me, as if it were but 
yesterday, I must not be so loug in telling 
as it was in traveling, or you will wish me 
farther; both because Lorna was nothing 
there, and also because a man in our neigh- 
borhood hath done the whole of it since 
my time, and feigns to think nothing of it. 
However, one thing, in common justice to a 
person who has been traduced, I am bound 
to mention. And this is, that being two of 
us, and myself of such magnitude, we never 
could have made our journey without either 
fight or running, but for the free pass which 
dear Annie, by some means (I know not 
what) had procured from Master Faggus. 
And when I let it be known, by some hap, 
that I was the own cousin of Tom Faggus, 
and honored with his society, there was not 
a house upon the road but was proud to 
entertain me, in spite of my fellow-traveler 
bearing the red badge of the King. 

“I will keep this close, my son Jack,” he 
said, having stripped it off with a carving- 
knife; “your flag is the best to fly. The 
man who starved me on the way down, the 
same shall feed me fat going home.” 

Therefore we pursued our way in ex- 
cellent condition, having thriven upon the 
credit of that very popular highwayman, 
and being surrounded with regrets that he 
had left the profession, and sometimes beg- 
ged to intercede that he might help the road 
again. For all the landlords on the road 
declared that now small ale was drunk, nor 
much of spirits called for, because the farm- 
ers need not prime to meet only common 
riders, neither were these worth the while 
to get drunk with afterward. Master Stick- 


les himself undertook, as an officer of the 
King’s justices, to plead this case with Squire 
Faggus (as every body called him now), and 
to induce him, for the general good, to re- 
turn to his proper ministry. 

It was a long and weary journey, although 
the roads are wondrous good on the farther 
side of Bristowe, and scarcely any man need 
be bogged, if he keeps his eyes well open, 
save, perhaps, in Berkshire. In consequence 
of the pass we had, and the vintners’ knowl- 
edge of it, we only met two public riders, 
one of whom made off straightway when he 
saw my companion’s pistols and the stout 
carbine I bore ; and the other came to a 
parley with us, and proved most kind and 
affable, when he knew himself in the pres- 
ence of the cousin of Squire Faggus. “ God 
save you, gentlemen,” he cried, lifting his 
hat politely ; “ many and many a happy day 
I have worked this road with him. Such 
times will never be again. But commend 
me to his love and prayers. King my name 
is, and King my nature. Say that, and none 
will harm you.” And so he made off down 
the hill, being a perfect gentleman, and a 
very good horse he was riding. 

The night was falling very thick by the 
time we were come to Tyburn, and here the 
King’s officer decided that it would be wise 
to halt; because the way was unsafe by 
night across the fields to Charing village. 
I for my part was nothing loath, and pre- 
ferred to see London by daylight. 

And after all, it was not worth seeing, but 
a very hideous and dirty place, not at all 
like Exmoor. Some of the shops were very 
fine, and the signs above them finer still, so 
that I was never weary of standing still to 
look at them. But in doing this there was 
no ease ; for before one could begin almost 
to make out the meaning of them, either 
some of the wayfarers would bustle, and 
scowl, and draw their swords, or the owner, 
or his apprentice-boys, would rush out and 
catch hold of me, crying, “Buy, buy, buy! 
What d’ye lack, what d’ye lack ? Buy, buy, 
buy!” At first I mistook the meaniug of 
this — for so we pronounce the word “boy” 
upon Exmoor — and I answered with some 
indignation, “ Sirrah, I am no boy now, but 
a man of one-and-twenty years ; and as for 
lacking, I lack naught from thee, except what 
thou hast not — good manners.” 

The only things that pleased me much 
were the river Thames, and the hall and 
church of Westminster, where there are 
brave things to be seen, and braver still to 
think about. But whenever I wandered in 
the streets, what with the noise the people 
made, the number of the coaches, the run- 
ning of the footmen, the swaggering of great 
courtiers, and the thrusting aside of every 
body, many and many a time I longed to 
be back among the sheep again, for fear of 
losing temper. They were welcome to the 


84 


LORNA DOONE. 


wall for me, as I took care to tell them, for 
I could stand without the wall, which per- 
haps was more thau they could do. Though 
I said this with the best intention, meaning 
no discourtesy, some of them were vexed at 
it ; and one young lord, being flushed with 
drink, drew liis sword and made at me. But 
I struck it up with my holly stick, so that 
it flew on the roof of a house, then I took 
him by the belt with one hand, and laid 
him in the kennel. This caused some little 
disturbance ; but none of the rest saw fit to 
try how the matter might be with them. 

Now this being the year of our Lord 1683, 
more than nine years and a half since the 
death of my father, and the beginning of 
this history, all London was in a great fer- 
ment about the dispute between the Court 
of the King and the City. The King, or 
rather perhaps his party (for they said that 
His Majesty cared for little except to have 
plenty of money and spend it), was quite re- 
solved to be supreme in the appointment of 
the chief officers of the corporation. But 
the citizens maintained that (under their 
charter) this right lay entirely with them- 
selves ; upon which a writ was issued against 
them for forfeiture of their charter ; and the 
question was now being tried in the court 
of His Majesty’s bench. 

This seemed to occupy all the attention 
of the judges, and my case (which had ap- 
peared so urgent) was put off from time to 
time, while the court and the city contend- 
ed. And so hot was the conflict and hate 
between them, that a sheriff had been fined 
by the King in £100,000, and a former lord 
mayor had even been sentenced to the pil- 
lory, because he would not swear falsely. 
Hence the courtiers and the citizens scarce 
could meet in the streets with patience, or 
without railing and frequent blows. 

Now, although I heard so much of this 
matter, for nothing else was talked of, and 
it seemed to me more important even than 
the church-wardenship of Oare, I could not 
for the life of me tell which side I should 
take to. For all my sense of position, and 
of confidence reposed in me, and of my fa- 
ther’s opinions, lay heavily in one scale; 
while all my reason and my heart went down 
plump against injustice, and seemed to win 
the other scale. Even so my father had 
been, at the breaking out of the civil war, 
when he was less than my age now, and even 
less skilled in politics : and my mother told 
me after this, when she saw how I myself 
was doubting, and vexed with myself for 
doing so, that my father used to thank God 
often that he had not been called upon to 
take one side or other, but might remain ob- 
scure and quiet. And yet he always consid- 
ered himself to be a good sound Royalist. 

But now as I staid there, only desirous to 
be heard and to get away, and scarcely even 
guessing yet what was wanted of me (for 


[ even Jeremy Stickles knew not, or pretends 
ed not to know), things came to a dreadful 
pass between the King and all the people 
who dared to have an opinion. For about 
the middle of June, the judges gave their 
sentence, that the City of London had for- 
feited its charter, and that its franchise 
should be taken into the hands of the King. 
Scarcely was this judgment forth, and all 
men hotly talking of it, when a far worse 
thing befell. News of some great conspira- 
cy was spread at every corner, and that a 
man in the malting business had tried to 
take up the brewer’s work, and lop the King 
and the Duke of York. Every body was 
shocked at this, for the King himself was 
not disliked so much as his advisers ; but 
every body was more than shocked, grieved 
indeed to the heart with pain, at hearing 
that Lord William Russell and Mr. Algernon 
Sidney had been seized and sent to the Tow- 
er of London upon a charge of high treason. 

Having no knowledge of these great men, 
nor of the matter how far it was true, I had 
not very much to say about either them or 
it : but this silence was not shared (although 
the ignorance may have been) by the hun- 
dreds of people around me. Such a commo- 
tion was astir, such universal sense of wrong, 
and stern resolve to right it, that each man 
grasped his fellow’s hand, and led him into 
the vintner’s. Even I, although at that time 
given to excess in temperance, and afraid of 
the name of cordials, was hard set (I do as- 
sure you) not to be drunk at intervals, with- 
out coarse discourtesy. 

However that (as Betty Mux worthy used 
to say, when argued down and ready to take 
the mop for it) is neither here nor there. I 
have naught to do with great history, and 
am sorry for those who have to write it ; be- 
cause they are sure to have both friends and 
enemies in it, and can not act as they would 
toward them, without damage to their own 
consciences. 

But as great events draw little ones, and 
the rattle of the churn decides the uncer- 
tainty of the flies, so this movement of the 
town, and eloquence, and passion bad more 
than I guessed at the time, to do with my 
own little fortunes. For in the first place 
it was fixed (perhaps from downright con- 
tumely, because the citizens loved him so) 
that Lord Russell should be tried neither at 
Westminster nor at Lincoln’s Inn, but at the 
Court of Old Bailey, within the precincts of 
‘the city. This kept me hanging on much 
longer; because although the good noble- 
man was to be tried by the Court of Com- 
mon Pleas, yet the officers of the King’s 
Bench, to whom I daily applied myself, were 
in counsel with their fellows, and put me off 
from day to day. 

Now I had heard of the law’s delays, 
which the greatest of all great poets (know- 
ing much of the law himself, as indeed of 


LORNA DOONE. 


85 


every thing) has specially mentioned, when 
not expected, among the many ills of life. 
But I never thought at my years to have 
such bitter experience of the evil; and it 
seemed to me that if the lawyers failed to 
do their duty, they ought to pay people for 
waiting upon them, instead of making them 
pay for it. But here I was, now in the sec- 
ond month, living at my own charges, in the 
house of a worthy fellmonger at the sigu of 
the Seal and Squirrel, abutting upon the 
Strand road which leads from Temple Bar 
to Charing. Here I did very well indeed, 
having a mattress of good skin-dressings, 
and plenty to eat every day of my life, but 
the butter was something to cry “but” 
thrice at (according to a conceit of our school 
days) and the milk must have come from 
cows driven to water. However, these evils 
were light compared with the heavy bill sent 
up to me every Saturday afternoon; and 
knowing how my mother had pinched to 
send me nobly to London, and had told me 
to spare for nothing, but live bravely with 
the best of them, the tears very nearly came 
into my eyes, as I thought, while I ate, of so 
robbing her. 

At length, being quite at the end of my 
money, and seeing no other help for it, I de- 
termined to listen to clerks no more, but 
force my way up to the Justices, and insist 
upon being heard by them, or discharged 
from my recognizance. For so they had 
termed the bond or deed which I had been 
forced to execute, in the presence of a chief 
clerk or notary, the very day after I came 
to London. And the purport of it was, that 
on pain of a heavy fine or escheatment, I 
would hold myself ready and present, to 
give evidence when called upon. Having 
delivered me up to sign this, Jeremy Stickles 
was quit of me, and went upon other busi- 
ness, not but what he was kind and good to 
me when his time and pursuits allowed of 
it. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

A GREAT MAN ATTENDS TO BUSINESS. 

Having seen Lord Russell murdered in 
the fields of Lincoln’s Inn, or rather having 
gone to see it, but turned away with a sick- 
ness and a bitter Hood of tears — for a whiter 
and a nobler neck never fell before low 
beast — I strode away toward Westminster, 
cured of half my indignation at the death 
of Charles the First. Many people hurried 
past me, chiefly of the more tender sort, re- 
volting at the butchery. In their ghastly 
faces, as they turned them back, lest the 
sight should be coming after them, great 
sorrow was to be seen, and horror, and pity, 
and some anger. 

In Westminster Hall I found nobody; 
not even the crowd of crawling varlets, who 


used to be craving evermore for employment 
or for payment. I knocked at three doors, 
one after other, of lobbies going out of it, 
where I had formerly seen some officers and 
people pressing in and out ; but for my trou- 
ble I took nothing, except some thumps from 
echo. And at last an old man told me that 
all the lawyers were gone to see the result 
of their own works in the fields of Lincoln’s 
Inn. 

However, in a few days’ time I had better 
fortune ; for the court was sitting and full 
of business, to clear off the arrears of work 
before the lawyers’ holiday. As I was wait- 
ing in the hall for a good occasion, a man 
with horse-hair on his head, and a long blue 
bag in his left hand, touched me gently on 
the arm, and led me into a quiet place. I 
followed him very gladly, being confident 
that he came to me with a message from the 
Justiciaries. But after taking pains to be 
sure that none could overhear us, he turned 
on me suddenly, and asked, 

“ Now, John, how is your dear mother ?” 

“ Worshipful sir,” I answered him, after 
recovering from my surprise at his knowl- 
edge of our affairs, and kindly interest in 
them, “it is two months now since I have 
seen her. Would to God that I only knew 
how she is faring now, and how the business 
of the farm goes !” 

“ Sir, I respect and admire you,” the old 
gentleman replied, with a bow very low and 
genteel; “few young court-gallants of our 
time are so reverent and dutiful. Oh, how 
I did love my mother !” Here he turned up 
his eyes to heaven in a manner that made 
me feel for him, and yet with a kind of 
wonder. 

“ I am very sorry for you, sir,” I answered 
most respectfully, not meaning to trespass 
on his grief, yet wondering at his mother’s 
age ; for he seemed to be at least three-score : 
“ but I am no court-gallant, sir ; I am only 
a farmer’s son, and learning how to farm a 
little.” 

“ Enough, John ; quite enough,” he cried ; 
“ I can read it in thy countenance. Honesty 
is written there, and courage, and simplici- 
ty. But I fear that, in this town of Lon- 
don, thou art apt to be taken in by people 
of no principle. Ah me ! ah me ! The world 
is bad, and I am too old to improve it.” 

Then finding him so good and kind, and 
anxious to improve the age, I told him al- 
most every thing ; how much I paid the fell- 
monger, and all the things I had been to see ; 
and how I longed to get away before the 
corn was ripening ; yet how (in spite of 
these desires) I felt myself bound to walk 
up and down, being under a thing called 
“ recognizance.” In short, I told him every 
thing ; except the nature of my summons 
(which I had no right to tell), and that I 
was out of money. 

My tale was told in a little archway, apart 


36 


LORNA DOONE. 


from other lawyers ; and the other lawyers 
seemed to me to shift themselves, and to 
look askew, like sheep through a hurdle, 
when the rest are feeding. 

“What! Good God!” my lawyer cried, 
smiting his breast indignantly with a roll 
of something learned; “in what country do 
we live ? Under what laws are we govern- 
ed ? No case before the court whatever ; no 
primary deposition, so far as we are furnish- 
ed ; not even a King’s writ issued — and here 
we have a fine young man dragged from his 
home and adoring mother, during the height 
of agriculture, at his own cost and charges ! 
I have heard of many grievances ; but this 
the very worst of all. Nothing short of a 
Royal Commission could be warranty for it. 
This is not only illegal, sir, but most gravely 
unconstitutional.” 

“ I had not told you, worthy sir,” I an- 
swered him, in a lower tone, “ if I could 
have thought that your sense of right would 
be moved so painfully. But now I must beg 
to leave you, sir, for I see that the door again 
is open. I beg you, worshipful sir, to ac- 
cept — ” 

Upon this he put forth his hand and 
said, “Nay, nay, my son, not two, not two 
yet looking away, that he might not scare 
me. 

“ To accept, kind sir, my very best thanks, 
and most respectful remembrances.” And 
with that I laid my hand in his. “And 
if, sir, any circumstances of business or of 
pleasure should bring you to our part of 
the world, I trust you will not forget that 
my mother and myself (if ever I get home 
again) will do our best to make you com- 
fortable with our poor hospitality.” 

With this I was hasting away from him, 
but he held my hand and looked round at 
me. And he spoke without cordiality. 

“ Young man, a general invitation is no 
entry for my fee-book. I have spent a good 
hour of business-time in mastering thy case, 
and stating my opinion of it. And being 
a member of the bar, called sis-and-thirty 
years agone by the honorable society of the 
Inner Temple, my fee is at my own discre- 
tion ; albeit an honorarium. For the honor 
of the profession, and my position in it, I 
ought to charge thee at least five guineas, 
although I would have accepted one, offered 
with good-will and delicacj'’. Now I will 
enter it two, my son, and half a crown for 
my clerk’s fee.” 

Saying this, he drew forth from his deep, 
blue bag a red book having clasps to it, 
and indorsed in gold letters “ Fee-book 
and before I could speak (being frightened 
so) he had entered on a page of it, “ To con- 
sideration of case as stated by John Ridd, 
and advising thereupon, two guineas.” 

“ But sir, good sir,” I stammered forth, not 
having two guineas left in the world, yet 
grieving to confess it, “ I knew not that I 


was to pay, learned sir. I never thought of 
it in that way.” 

“ Wounds of God ! In what way thought 
you that a lawyer listened to your rigma- 
role ?” 

“I thought that you listened from kind- 
ness, sir, and compassion of my grievous 
case, and a sort of liking for me.” 

“A lawyer like thee, young curmudgeon ! 
A lawyer afford to feel compassion gratis! 
Either thou art a very deep knave, or the 
greenest of all greenhorns. Well, I suppose 
I must let thee off for one guinea, and the 
clerk’s fee. A bad business, a shocking bus- 
iness !” 

Now, if this man had continued kind and 
soft, as when he heard my story, I would 
have pawned my clothes to x>ay him, rather 
than leave a debt behind, although con- 
tracted unwittingly. But when he used 
harsh language so, knowing that I did not 
deserve it, I began to doubt within myself 
whether he deserved my money. Therefore 
I answered him with some readiness, such 
as comes sometimes to me, although I am so 
slow. 

“ Sir, I am no curmudgeon : if a young 
man had called me so, it would not have 
been well with him. This money shall be 
paid, if due, albeit I had no desire to incur 
the debt. You have advised me that the 
Court is liable for my expenses, so far as 
they be reasonable. If this be a reasonable 
expense, come with me now to Lord-justice 
Jeffreys, and receive from him the two guin- 
eas, or (it may be) five, for the counsel you 
have given me to deny his jurisdiction.” 
With these words, I took his arm to lead 
him, for the door was open still. 

“In the name of God, boy, let me go. 
Worthy sir, pray let me go. My wife is 
sick, and my daughter dying — in the name 
of God, sir, let me go.” 

“Nay, nay,” I said, having fast hold of 
him ; “ I can not let thee go unpaid, sir. 
Right is right ; and thou shalt have it.” 

“ Ruin is what I shall have, boy, if you 
drag me before that devil. He will strike 
me from the bar at once, and starve me, and 
all my family. Here, lad, good lad, take 
these two guineas. Thou hast despoiled 
the spoiler. Never again will I trust mine 
eyes for knowledge of a greenhorn.” 

He slipped two guineas into the hand 
which I had hooked through his elbow, and 
spoke in an urgent whisper again, for the 
people came crowding around us — “For 
God’s sake, let me go, boy ; another moment 
will be too late.” 

“ Learned sir,” I answered him, “ twice 
you spoke, unless I err, of the necessity of a 
clerk’s fee, as a thing to be lamented.” 

“ To be sure, to be sure, my son. You 
have a clerk as much as I have. There it 
is. Now I pray thee, take to the study of 
the law. Possession is nine points of it, 


LORNA DOONE. 


which thou hast of me. Self-possession is 
the tenth, and that thou hast more than the 
other nine.” 

Being flattered by this, and by the feeling 
of the two guineas and half-crown, I drop- 
ped my hold upon Counselor Kitcli (for he 
was no less a man than that), and lie was 
out of sight in a second of time, wig, blue 
bag, and family. And before I had time to 
make up my mind what I should do with 
his money (for of course I meant not to keep 
it), the crier of the Court (as they told me) 
■came out, and wanted to know who I was. 
I told him, as shortly as I could, that my 
business lay with His Majesty’s bench, and 
was very confidential ; upon which he took 
me inside with warning, and showed me to 
an under-clerk, who showed me to a higher 
one, and the higher clerk to the head one. 

When this gentleman understood all about 
my business (which I told him without com- 
plaint) he frowned at me very heavily, as if 
I had done him an injury. 

“John Ridd,” he asked me, with a stern 
glance, “is it your deliberate desire to be 
brought into the presence of the Lord Chief- 
justice ?” 

“ Surely, sir, it has been my desire for the 
last two months and more.” 

“ Then, John, thou shalt be. But mind 
one thing, not a word of thy long detention, 
or thou mayest get into trouble.” 

“ How, sir ? For being detained against 
my own wish ?” I asked him ; but he turned 
away, as if that matter were not worth his 
arguing, as indeed I suppose it was not, and 
led me through a little passage to a door 
with a curtain across it. 

“ Now, if my lord cross-question you,” the 
gentleman whispered to me, “answer him 
straight out truth at once, for he will have 
it out of thee. And mind, he loves not to 
be contradicted, neither can he bear a hang- 
dog look. Take little heed of the other 
two; but note every word of the middle 
one ; and never make him speak twice.” 

I thanked him for his good advice, as he 
moved the curtain and thrust me in ; but 
instead of entering, withdrew, and left me 
to bear the brunt of it. 

The chamber was not very large, though 
lofty to my eyes, and dark, with wooden pan- 
els round it. At the farther end were some 
raised seats, such as I have seen in churches, 
lined with velvet, and having broad elbows, 
and a canopy over the middle seat. There 
were only three men sitting here, one in the 
centre, and one on each side ; and all three 
were done up wonderfully with fur, and robes 
of state, and curls of thick gray horse-hair, 
crimped and gathered, and plaited down to 
their shoulders. Each man had an oak desk 
before him, set at a little distance, and spread 
with pens and papers. Instead of writing, 
however, they seemed to be laughing and 
Talking, or rather the one in the middle 


3 

seemed to be telling some good story, which 
the others received with approval. By rea- 
son of their great perukes, it was hard to tell 
how old they were; but the one who was 
speaking seemed the youngest, although he 
was the chief of them. A thick-set, burly, 
and bulky man, with a blotchy broad face, 
and great square jaws, and fierce eyes full 
of blazes ; he was one to be dreaded by gen- 
tle souls, and to be abhorred by the noble. 

Between me and the three lord judges, 
some few lawyers were gathering up bags 
and papers and pens and so forth, from a 
narrow table in the middle of the room ; as 
if a case had been disposed of, and no other 
were called on. But before I had time to 
look round twice, the stout, fierce man es- 
pied me, and shouted out, with a flashing 
stare, 

“ How now, countryman, who art thou ?” 

“ May it please your worship,” I answered 
him, loudly, “ I am John Ridd, of Oare par- 
ish, in the shire of Somerset, brought to this 
London some two months back by a special 
messenger, whose name is Jeremy Stickles ; 
and then bound over to be at hand and 
ready, when called upon to give evidence, 
in a matter unknown to me, but touching 
the peace of our lord the King, and the well- 
being of his subjects. Three times I have 
met our lord the King, but he hath said 
nothing about his peace, and only held it 
toward me ; and every day save Sunday, I 
have walked up and down the great hall 
of Westminster, all the business part of the 
day, expecting to be called upon; yet no 
one hath called upon me. And now I de- 
sire to ask your worship whether I may go 
home again.” 

“Well done, John,” replied his lordship, 
while I was panting with all this speech; 
“ I will go bail for thee, John, thou hast nev- 
er made such a long speech before ; and thou 
art a spunky Briton, or thou couldst not have 
made it now. I remember the matter well ; 
and I myself will attend to it, although it 
arose before my time ” — he was but newly 
Chief-justice — “but I can not take it now, 
John. There is no fear of losing thee, John, 
any more than the Tower of London. I 
grieve for His Majesty’s exchequer, after 
keeping thee two months or more.” 

“ Nay, my lord, I crave your pardon. My 
mother hath been keeping me. Not a groat 
have I received.” 

“ Spank, is it so ?” his lordship cried, in a 
voice that shook the cobwebs, and the frown 
on his brow shook the hearts of men, and 
mine as much as the rest of them — “ Spank, 
is His Majesty come to this, that he starves 
his own approvers ?” 

“ My lord, my lord,” whispered Mr. Spank, 
the chief-officer of evidence, “ the thing hath 
been overlooked, my lord, among such grave 
matters of treason.” 

“ I will overlook thy head, foul Spank, on. 


m 


LORNA DOONE. 


a spike from Temple Bar, if ever I hear of 
the like again. Vile varlet, what art thou 
paid for? Thou liast swindled the money 
thyself, foul Spank ; I know thee, though 
thou art new to me. Bitter is the day for 
thee that ever I came across thee. Answer 
me not — one word more, and I will have 
thee on a hurdle.” And he swung himself 
to and fro on his bench, with both hands on 
his knees; and every man waited to let it 
pass, knowing better than to speak to him. 

“John Ridd,” said the Lord Chief-justice, 
at last, recovering a sort of dignity, yet dar- 
ing Spank from the corners of his eyes to 
do so much as look at him, “ thou hast been 
shamefully used, John Ridd. Answer me 
not, boy ; not a word ; but go to Master 
Spank, and let me know how he behaves to 
thee;” here he made a glance at Spank, 
which was worth at least ten pounds to me ; 
“ be thou here again to-morrow ; and before 
any other case is taken, I will see justice 
done to thee. Now be off, boy ; thy name 
is Ridd, and we are well rid of thee.” 

I was only too glad to go, after all this 
tempest, as you may well suppose. For if 
ever I saw a man’s eyes become two holes 
for the devil to glare from, I saw it that 
day ; and the eyes were those of the Lord 
Chief-justice Jeffreys. 

Mr. Spank was in the lobby before me, 
and before I had recovered myself — for I 
was vexed with my own terror — he came up 
sideling and fawning to me, with a heavy 
bag of yellow leather. 

“Good Master Ridd, take it all, take it 
all, and say a good word for me to his lord- 
ship. He hath taken a strange fancy to 
thee ; and thou must make the most of it. 
We never saw man meet him eye to eye so, 
and yet not contradict him ; and that is just 
what he loveth. Abide in London, Master 
Ridd, and he will make thy fortune. His 
joke upon thy name proves that. And I 
pray you remember, Master Ridd, that the 
Spanks are sixteen in family.” 

But I would not take the bag from him, 
regarding it as a sort of bribe to pay me 
such a lump of money, without so much as 
asking how great had been my expenses. 
Therefore I only told him that if he would 
kindly keep the cash for me until the mor- 
row, I would spend the rest of the day in 
counting (which always is sore work with 
me) how much it had stood me in board and 
lodging since Master Stickles had rendered 
me up ; for until that time he had borne my 
expenses. In the morning I would give Mr. 
Spank a memorandum, duly signed, and at- 
tested by my landlord, including the break- 
fast of that day, and in exchange for this I 
would take the exact amount from the yel- 
low bag, and be very thankful for it. 

“ If that is thy way of using opportuni- 
ty,” said Spank, looking at me with some 
contempt, “ thou wilt never thrive in these 


times, my lad. Even the Lord Chief-justice' 
can be little help to thee ; unless thou know- 
est better than that how to help thyself.” 

It mattered not to me. The word “ap- 
prover” stuck in my gorge, as used by the 
Lord Chief -j ustice ; for we looked upon an 
approver as a very low thing indeed. I 
would rather pay for every breakfast, and 
even every dinner, eaten by me since here 
I came, than take money as an approver. 
And indeed I was much disappointed at be- 
ing taken in that light, having understood 
that I was sent for as a trusty subject, and 
humble friend of His Majesty. 

In the morning I met Mr. Spank waiting 
for me at the entrance, and very desirous to 
see me. I showed him my bill, made out in 
fair copy, and he laughed at it, and said, 
“ Take it twice over, Master Ridd ; once for 
thine own sake, and once for His Majesty’s ; 
as all his loyal tradesmen do, when they can 
get any. His Majesty knows and is proud 
of it, for it shows their love of his coun- 
tenance ; and he says ‘Bis dat qui cito dat, y 
‘ Then how can I grumble at giving twice, 
when I give so slowly ? ’ ” 

“ Nay, I will take it but once,” I said ; “if 
His Majesty loves to be robbed, he need not 
lack of his desire while the Spanks are six- 
teen in family.” 

The clerk smiled cheerfully at this, being 
proud of his children’s ability ; and then, 
having paid my account, he whispered, 

“He is all alone this morning, John, and 
in rare good humor. He hath been prom- 
ised the handling of poor Master Algernon 
Sidney, and he says he will soon make re- 
public of him ; for his state shall shortly be 
headless. He is chuckling over his joke, 
like a pig with a nut; and that always 
makes him pleasant. John Ridd, my lord !” 
With that he swung up the curtain bravely ; 
and according to special orders, I stood, face 
to face, and alone with Judge Jeffreys. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

JOHN IS DRAINED AND CAST ASIDE. 

His lordship was busy with some letters, 
and did not look up for a minute or two, al- 
though he knew that I was there. Mean- 
while I stood waiting to make my bow, 
afraid to begin upon him, and wondering at 
his great bull-head. Then he closed his let- 
ters, well pleased with their import, and 
fixed his bold broad stare on me, as if I were 
an oyster opened, and he would know how 
fresh I was. 

“May it please your worship,” I said, 
“here I am according to order, awaiting 
your good pleasure.” 

“Thou art made to weight, John, more 
than order. How much dost thou tip the 
scales to ?” 


LORNA DOONE. 


89 - 


“ Only twelve-score pounds, my lord, when 
I be in wrestling trim. And sure I must 
have lost weight here, fretting so long in 
London.” 

“ Ha, ha ! Much fret is there in thee ! 
Hath His Majesty seen thee ?” 

“ Yes, my lord, twice or even thrice ; and 
he made some jest concerning me.” 

“A very bad one, I doubt not. His hu- 
mor is not so dainty as mine, but apt to 
be coarse and unmannerly. Now, John, or 
Jack, by the look of thee, thou art more used 
to be called.” 

“ Yes, your worship, when I am with old 
Molly and Betty Muxworthy.” 

“ Peace, thou forward varlet ! There is a 
deal too much of thee. We shall have to 
try short commons with thee, and thou art 
a very long common. Ha, ha! Where is 
that rogue Spank ? Spank must hear that 
by -and -by. It is beyond thy great thick 
head, Jack.” 

“ Not so, my lord ; I have been at school, 
and had very bad jokes made upon me.” 

“Ha, ha! It hath hit thee hard. And 
faith, it would be hard to miss thee, even 
with harpoon. And thou lookest like to 
blubber, now. Capital, in faith! I have 
thee on every side, Jack, and thy sides are 
manifold ; many-folded at any rate. Thou 
shalt have double expenses, Jack, for the wit 
thou hast provoked in me.” 

“ Heavy goods lack heavy payment, is a 
proverb down our way, my lord.” 

“Ah, I hurt thee, I hurt thee, Jack. The 
harpoon hath no tickle for thee. Now, Jack 
Whale, having hauled thee hard, we will 
proceed to examine thee.” Here all his 
manner was changed, and he looked with 
his heavy brows bent upon me, as if he had 
never laughed in his life, and would allow 
none else to do so. 

“ I am ready to answer my lord,” I replied, 
“ if he asks me naught beyond my knowl- 
edge, or beyond my honor.” 

“ Hadst better answer me every thing, 
lump. What hast thou to do with honor ? 
Now, is there in thy neighborhood a certain 
nest of robbers, miscreants, and outlaws, 
whom all men fear to handle ?” 

“ Yes, my lord. At least I believe some 
of them be robbers ; and all of them are out- 
laws.” 

“And what is your high -sheriff about, 
that he doth not hang them all ? Or send 
them up for me to hang, without more todo 
about them ?” 

“ I reckon that he is afraid, my lord ; it is 
not safe to meddle with them. They are of 
good birth, and reckless ; and their place is 
very strong.” 

“Good birth! What was Lord Russell 
of, Lord Essex, and this Sidney ? ’Tis the 
surest heirship to the block to be the chip of 
an old one. What is the name of this pesti- 
lent race, and how many of them are there ?” 


“ They are the Doones of Bagworthy for- 
est, may it please your worship. And we 
reckon there be about forty of them, besides 
the women and children.” 

“Forty Doones, all forty thieves! and 
women and children! Thunder of God! 
How long have they been there, then ?” 

“ They may have been there thirty years, 
my lord ; and indeed they may have been 
forty. Before the great war broke out they 
came, longer back than I can remember.” 

“Ay, long before thou wast born, John. 
Good, thou speakest plainly. Woe betide a 
liar, whenso I get hold of him. Ye want 
me on the Western Circuit ; by God, aud ye 
shall have me, when London traitors are 
spun and swung. There is a family called 
De Whichehalse living very nigh thee, 
John ?” 

This he said in a sudden manner, as if to 
take me off my guard, and fixed his great 
thick eyes on me. And in truth I was much 
astonished. 

“ Yes, my lord, there is. At least, not so 
very far from us. Baron de Whichehalse, 
of Ley Manor.” 

“Baron, ha! of the Exchequer — eh, lad? 
And taketh dues instead of His Majesty. 
Somewhat which halts there ought to come 
a little farther, I trow. It shall be seen to, 
as well as the witch which makes it so to 
halt. Riotous knaves in West England, 
drunken outlaws, you shall dance, if ever I 
play pipe for you. John Ridd, I will come 
to Oare parish, and rout out the Oare of 
Babylon.” 

“Although your worship is so learned,” I 
answered, seeing that now he was beginning 
to make things uneasy ; “ your worship, 
though being Chief-justice, does little justice 
to us. We are downright good and loyal 
folk ; and I have not seen, since here I came 
to this great town of London, any who may 
better us, or even come anigh us, in hones- 
ty, and goodness, and duty to our neighbors. 
For we are very quiet folk, not prating our 
own virtues — ” 

“Enough, good John, enough! Knowest 
thou not that modesty is the maidenhood of 
virtue, lost even by her own approval ? Now 
hast thou ever heard or thought that De 
Whichehalse is in league with the Doones 
of Bagworthy ?” 

Saying these words rather slowly, he 
skewered his great eyes into mine, so that I 
could not think at all, neither look at him, 
nor yet away. The idea was so new to me, 
that it set my wits all wandering ; and look- 
ing into me, he saw that I was groping for 
the truth. 

“John Ridd, thine eyes are enough for 
me. I see thou hast never dreamed of it. 
Now hast thou ever seen a man whose name 
is Thomas Faggus ?” 

“ Yes, sir, many and many a time. He is. 
my own worthy cousin ; and I fear that he- 


90 


LORNA DOONE. 


bath intentions — ” Here I stopped, having 
no right there to speak about our Annie. 

“ Tom Faggus is a good man,” he said ; 
and his great square face had a smile which 
showed me he had met my cousin ; “Master 
Faggus hath made mistakes as to the title 
to property, as lawyers oftentimes may do ; 
but take him all for all, he is a thoroughly 
straightforward man ; presents his bill, and 
has it paid, and makes no charge for draw- 
ing it. Nevertheless, we must tax his costs, 
as of any other solicitor.” 

“ To be sure, to be sure, my lord !” was all 
that I could say, not understanding what all 
this meant. 

“ I fear he will come to the gallows,” said 
the Lord Chief-justice, sinking his voice be- 
low the echoes; “tell him this from me, 
Jack. He shall never be condemned before 
me ; but I can not be everywhere ; and some 
of our Justices may keep short memory of 
his dinners. Tell him to change his name, 
turn parson, or do something else, to make 
it wrong to hang him. Parson is the best 
thing ; he hath such command of features, 
and he might take his tithes on horseback. 
Now a few more things, John Ridd ; and for 
the present I have done with thee.” 

All my heart leaped up at this, to get 
away from London so : and yet I could hard- 
ly trust to it. 

“ Is there any sound round your way of 
disaffection to His Majesty, His most gra- 
cious Majesty?” 

“No, my lord: no sign whatever. We 
pray for him in church, perhaps ; and we 
talk about him afterward, hoping it may do 
him good, as it is intended. But after that 
we have naught to say, not knowing much 
about him — at least till I get home again.” 

“ That is as it should be, John. And the 
less you say the better. But I have heard 
of things in Taunton, and even nearer to you 
in Dulverton, and even nigher still upon Ex- 
moor ; things which are of the pillory kind, 
and even more of the gallows. I see that 
you know naught of them. Nevertheless, 
it will not be long, before all England hears 
of them. Now, John, I have taken a liking 
to thee ; for never man told me the truth, 
without fear or favor, more thoroughly and 
truly than thou hast done. Keep thou clear 
of this, my son. It will come to nothing; 
yet many shall swing high for it. Even I 
could not save thee, John Ridd, if thou wert 
mixed in this affair. Keep from the Doones, 
keep from De- Wliichehalse, keep from every 
thing which leads beyond the sight of thy 
knowledge. I meant to use thee as my tool ; 
but I see thou art too honest and simple. 
I will send a sharper down ; but never let 
me find thee, John, either a tool for the 
other side, or a tube for my words to pass 
through.” 

Here the Lord -justice gave me sueh a 
glare, that I wished myself well rid of him, 


though thankful for his warnings ; and see- 
ing how he had made upon me a long abid- 
ing mark of fear, he smiled again in a jocu- 
lar manner, and said, 

“Now get thee gone, Jack. I shall re- 
member thee ; and I trow, thou wilt’st not 
for many a day forget me.” 

“ My lord, I was never so glad to go ; for 
the hay must be in, and the ricks unthatch- 
ed, and none of them can make spars like 
me, and two men to twist every hay-rope, 
and mother thinking it all right, and listen- 
ing right and left to lies, and cheated at ev- 
ery pig she kills, and even the skins of the 
sheep to go — ” 

“John Ridd, I thought none could come 
nigh your folk in honesty, and goodness, and 
duty to their neighbors !” 

“ Sure enough, my lord ; but by our folk 
I mean ourselves, not the men nor women 
neither — ” 

“ That will do, John. Go thy way. Not 
men, nor women neither, are better than 
they need be.” 

I wished to set this matter right ; but his 
worship would not hear me ; and only drove 
me out of the court, saying that men were 
thieves and liars no more in one place than 
another, but all alike all over the world, 
and women not far behind them. It was 
not for me to dispute this point (though I 
was not yet persuaded of it), both because 
my lord was a judge, and must know more 
about it, and also that, being a man myself, 
I might seem to be defending myself in an 
unbecoming manner. Therefore I made a 
low bow and went, in doubt as to which 
had the right of it. 

But though he had so far dismissed me, I 
was not yet quite free to go, inasmuch as I 
had not money enough to take me all the 
way to Oare, unless indeed I should go afoot, 
and beg my sustenance by the way, which 
seemed to be below me. Therefore I got 
my few clothes packed, and my few debts 
paid, all ready to start in half an hour, if 
only they would give me enough to set out 
upon the road with. For I doubted not, 
being young and strong, that I could walk 
from London to Oare in ten days, or in twelve 
at most, which was not much longer than 
horse-work ; only I had been a fool, as you 
will say when you hear it. For after re- 
ceiving from Master Spank the amount of 
the bill which I had delivered — less indeed 
by fifty shillings than the money my mother 
had given me, for I had spent fifty shillings 
and more in seeing the town and treating 
people, which I could not charge to His Maj- 
esty — I had first paid all my debts there- 
out, which were not very many; and then 
supposing myself to be an established cred- 
itor of the Treasury for my coming needs, 
and already scenting the country air, and 
foreseeing the joy of my mother, what had 
I done but spent half my balance, ay, and 


LORNA DOONE. 


91 


more than three-quarters of it, upon pres- 
ents for mother, and Annie, and Lizzie, John 
Fry, and his wife, and Betty Muxworthy, 
Bill Dadds, Jim Sloeombe, and, in a word, 
half of the rest of the people at Oare, includ- 
ing all the Snowe family, who must have 
things good aud handsome ? And if I must, 
while I am about it, hide nothing from those 
who read me, I had actually bought for Lor- 
na a thing the price of which quite fright- 
ened me, till the shop-keeper said it was 
nothing at all, aud that no young man, with 
a lady to love him, could dare to offer her 
rubbish such as the Jew sold across the 
way. Now the mere idea of beautiful Lor- 
na ever loving me, which he talked about as 
patly (though of course I never mentioned 
her) as if it were a settled thing, and he 
knew all about it, that mere idea so drove 
me abroad, that, if he had asked three times 
as much, I could never have counted the 
money. 

Now in all this I was a fool, of course — 
not for remembering my friends and neigh- 
bors, which a man has a right to do, and 
indeed is bound to do, when he comes from 
London — but for not being certified first 
what cash I had to go on with. And to my 
great amazement, when I went with anoth- 
er bill for the victuals of only three days 
■more, and a week’s expense on the home- 
ward road reckoned very narrowly, Master 
Spank not only refused to grant me any in- 
terview, but sent me out a piece of blue pa- 
per, looking like a butcher’s ticket, and bear- 
ing these words aud no more, “ John Ridd, 
go to the devil. He who will not when he 
may, when he will, he shall have nay.” 
From this I concluded that I had lost favor 
in the sight of Chief-justice Jeffreys. Per- 
haps because my evidence had not proved 
of any value ! perhaps because he meant to 
let the matter lie till cast on him. 

Anyhow, it was a reason of much grief, 
and some anger to me, and very great anx- 
iety, disappointment, and suspense. For 
here was the time of the hay gone past, and 
the harvest of small corn coming on, and the 
trout now rising at the yellow Sally, aud the 
•blackbirds eating our white-heart cherries 
{I was sure, though I could not see them), 
and who was to do any good for mother, or 
stop her from weeping continually ? And 
more than this, what was become of Lorna ? 
Perhaps she had cast me away altogether, 
as a flouter and a changeling ; perhaps she 
had drowned herself in the black well; per- 
haps (and that was worst of all) she was 
even married, child as she was, to that vile 
Carver Doone, if the Doones ever cared 
about marrying! That last thought sent 
me down at once to watch for Mr. Spank 
again, resolved that if I could catch him, 
•spank him I would to a pretty good tune, 
although sixteen in family. 

However, there was no such thing as to < 


' find him ; and the usher vowed (having or- 
ders, I doubt) that he was gone to the sea 
for the good of his health, having sadly 
overworked himself; and that none but a 
poor devil like himself, who never had 
handling of money, would stay in London 
this foul, hot weather ; which was likely to 
bring the plague with it. Here was anoth- 
er new terror for me, who had heard of the 
plagues of London, and the horrible things 
that happened; and so going back to my 
lodgings at once, I opened my clothes and 
sought for spots, especially as being so long 
at a hairy fellmonger’s ; but finding none, 
I fell down and thanked God for that same, 
and vowed to start for Oare to-morrow, with 
my carbine loaded, come weal come woe, 
come sun come shower; though all the par- 
ish should laugh at me for begging my way 
home again, after the brave things said of 
my going, as if I had been the King’s cousin. 

But I was saved in some degree from this 
lowering of my pride, and what mattered 
more, of mother’s ; for going to buy with 
my last crown-piece (after all demands were 
paid) a little shot and powder, more need- 
ful on the road almost than even shoes or 
victuals, at the corner of the street I met 
my good friend Jeremy Stickles, newly come 
in search of me. I took him back to my 
little room — mine at least till to-morrow 
morning — and told him all my story, and 
how much I felt aggrieved by it. But he 
surprised me very much, by showing no sur- 
prise at all. 

“ It is the way of the world, Jack. They 
have gotten all they can from thee, and why 
should they feed thee further? We feed 
not a dead pig, I trow, but baste him well 
with brine and rue. Nay, we do not victual 
him upon the day of killing; which they 
have done to thee. Thou art a lucky man, 
John ; thou hast gotten one day’s wages, or 
at any rate half a day, after thy work was 
rendered. God have mercy on me, John ! 
The things I see are manifold ; and so is my 
regard of them. What use to insist on this, 
or make a special point of that, or hold by 
something said of old, when a different mood 
was on ? I tell thee, Jack, all men are liars ; 
and he is the least one who presses not too 
hard on them for lying.” 

This was all quite dark to me, for I never 
looked at things like that, and never would 
own myself a liar, not at least to other peo- 
ple, nor even to myself, although I might to 
God sometimes, when trouble was upon me. 
And if it comes to that, no man has auy 
right to be called a “liar” for smoothing 
over things unwitting, through duty to his 
neighbor. 

“ Five pounds thou slialt have, Jack,” said 
Jeremy Stickles suddenly, while I was all 
abroad with myself as to being a liar or 
not; “five pounds, and I will take my 
chance of wringing it from that great rogue 


92 


LORNA DOONE. 


Spank. Ten I would have made it, John, 
but for bad luck lately. Put back your bits 
of paper, lad; I will have no acknowledg- 
ment. John Ridd, no nonsense with me !” 

For I was ready to kiss his hand, to think 
that any man in London (the meanest and 
most suspicious place upon all God’s earth) 
should trust me with five pounds without 
even a receipt for it! It overcame me so 
that I sobbed ; for after all, though big in 
body, I am but a child at heart. It was not 
the five pounds that moved me, but the way 
of giving it ; and, after so much bitter talk, 
the great trust in my goodness. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

HOME AGAIN AT LAST. 

It was the beginning of wheat-harvest 
when I came to Dunster town, having 
walked all the way from London, and be- 
ing somewhat foot -sore. For though five 
pounds was enough to keep me in food and 
lodging upon the road, and leave me many 
a shilling to give to far poorer travelers, it 
would have been nothing for horse-hire, as 
I knew too well by the prices Jeremy Stickles 
had paid upon our way to London. Now I 
never saw a prettier town than Dunster 
looked that evening ; for sooth to say, I had 
almost lost all hope of reaching it that night, 
although the castle was long in view. But 
being once there, my troubles were gone, at 
least as regarded wayfaring; for mother’s 
cousin, the worthy tanner (with whom we 
had slept on the way to London) was in 
such indignation at the plight in which I 
came back to him, afoot, and weary, and al- 
most shoeless — not to speak of upper things 
—that he swore then, by the mercy of God, 
that if the schemes a-brewing round him 
against those bloody Papists should come 
to any head or shape, and show good chance 
of succeeding, he would risk a thousand 
pounds as though it were a penny. 

I told him not to do it, because I had 
heard otherwise, but was not at liberty to 
tell one-tenth of what I knew, and indeed 
had seen, in London town. But of this he 
took no heed, because I only nodded at him ; 
and he could not make it out. For it takes 
au old man, or at least a middle-aged one, to 
nod and wink with any power on the brains 
of other men. However, I think I made him 
know that the bad state in which I came to 
his town, and the great shame I had wrought 
for him among the folk round the card-table 
at the “ Luttrell Arms,” was not to be, even 
there, attributed to King Charles the Sec- 
ond, nor even to his counselors, but to my 
own speed of traveling, which had beat post- 
horses. For being much distraught in mind 
and desperate in body, I had made all the 
way from London to Dunster in six days, 


and no more. It may be one hundred and 
seventy miles, I can not tell to a furlong or 
two, especially as I lost my way more than 
a dozen times; but at any rate there in six 
days I was, and most kindly they received 
me. The tanner had some excellent daugh- 
ters, I forget how many ; very pretty dam- 
sels, and well set up, and able to make good 
tanner’s pie. But though they asked me 
many questions, and made a sort of lord of 
me, and offered to darn my stockings (which 
in truth required it), I fell asleep in the 
midst of them, although I would not ac- 
knowledge it ; and they said, u Poor cousin ! 
he is weary ;” and led me to a blessed bed, 
and kissed me all round like swan’s down. 

In the morning all the Exmoor hills, the 
thoughts of which had frightened me at the 
end of each day’s travel, seemed no more 
than bushels to me, as I looked forth the 
bedroom window, and thanked God for the 
sight of them. And even so, I had not to 
climb them, at least by my own labor. For 
my most worthy uncle (as we often call a 
parent’s cousiu), finding it impossible to 
keep me for the day, and owning indeed 
that I was right in hastening to my mother, 
vowed that walk I should not, even though 
he lost his Saturday hides from Minehead 
and from Watchett. Accordingly he sent 
me forth on the very strongest nag he had, 
and the maidens came to wish me Godspeed, 
and kissed their hands at the door-way. It 
made me proud and glad to think that after 
seeing so much of the world, and having * 
held my own with it, I was come once more 
among my own people, and found them 
kinder, and more warm-hearted, ay, and bet- 
ter-looking too, than almost any I had hap- 
pened upon in the mighty city of London. 

But how shall I tell you the things I felt, 
and the swelling of my heart within me, as 
I drew nearer, and more near, to the place 
of all I loved and owned, to the haunt of 
every warm remembrance, the nest of all 
the fledgeling hopes — in a word, to home ? 
The first sheep I beheld on the moor with a 
great red J. R. on his side (for mother would 
have them marked with my name, instead 
of her own, as they should have been), I do 
assure you my spirit leaped, and all my sight 
came to my eyes. I shouted out, “ Jem, boy !” 

— for that was his name, and a rare hand he 
was at fighting — and he knew me in spite 
of the stranger horse ; and I leaned over 
and stroked his head, and swore he should 
never be mutton. And when I was passed, 
he set off at full gallop, to call all the rest 
of the J. R.’s together, and tell them young- 
master was come home at last. 

But bless your heart, and my own as well, 
it would take me all the afternoon to lay 
before you one -tenth of the things which 
came home to me in that one half-hour, as 
the sun was sinking, in the real way he 
ought to sink. I touched my horse with no 


LORNA DOONE. 


93 


spur nor whip, feeling that my slow wits 
would go, if the sights came too fast over 
them. Here was the pool where we washed 
the sheep, aud there was the hollow that 
oozed away, where I had shot three wild 
ducks. Here was the peat -rick that hid 
my dinner, when I could not go home for 
it, and there "was the hush with the thyme 
growing round it, where Annie had found 
a great swarm of our bees. And now was 
the corner of the dry stone-wall, where the 
moor gave over in earnest, and the par- 
tridges whisked from it into the corn lands, 
and called that their supper was ready, and 
looked at our house and the ricks as they 
ran, and would wait for that comfort till 
winter. 

And there I saw — but let me go — Annie 
was too much for me. She nearly pulled 
me off my horse, and kissed the very mouth 
of the carbine. 

“ I knew you would come. Oh John ! 
oh John! I have waited here every Satur- 
day night ; and I saw you for the last mile 
or more, but I would not come round the 
corner, for fear that I should cry, John ; and 
then not cry when I got you. Now I may 
cry as much as I like, and you need not try 
to stop me, John, because I am so happy. 
But you mustn’t cry yourself, John ; what 
will mother think of you ? She will be so 
jealous of me.” 

What mother thought I can not tell ; and 
indeed I doubt if she thought at all for more 
than half an hour, but only managed to hold 
me tight, and cry, and thank God now and 
then ; but with some fear of his taking me, 
if she should be too grateful. Moreover, she 
thought it was my own doing, and I ought 
to have the credit of it ; and she even came 
down very sharply upon John’s wife, Mrs. 
Fry, for saying that we must not be too 
proud, for all of it was the Lord’s doing. 
However, dear mother was ashamed of that 
afterward, and asked Mrs. Fry’s humble par- 
don ; and perhaps I ought not to have men- 
tioned it. 

Old Smiler had told them that I was com- 
ing — all the rest I mean except Annie — for 
having escaped from his halter-ring, he was 
come out to graze in the lane a bit ; when 
what should he see but a strange horse com- 
ing, with young master and mistress upon 
him, for Annie must needs get up behind 
me, there being only sheep to look at her ? 
Then Smiler gave us a stare and a neigh, 
with his tail quite stiff with amazement, 
and then (whether in joy or through indig- 
nation) he flung up his hind feet, and gal- 
loped straight home, and set every dog wild 
w r ith barking. 

Now methinks quite enough has been said 
concerning this mighty return of the young 
John Ridd (which was known up at Cosgate 
that evening); aud feeling that I can not 
describe it, how can I hope that any one 


else will labor to imagine it, even of the 
few who are able ? For very few can have 
traveled so far, unless indeed they whose 
trade it is, or very unsettled people. And 
even of those who have done so, not one in 
a hundred can have such a home as I had to 
come home to. 

Mother wept again, with grief and some 
wrath, and so did Annie also, and even little 
Eliza ; and all were unsettled in loyalty, and 
talked about a republic, when I told them 
how I had been left without money for trav- 
eling homeward, and expected to have to 
beg my way, which Farmer Snowe would 
have heard of. And though I could see they 
were disappointed at my failure of any pro- 
motion, they all declared how glad they 
were, and how much better they liked me 
to be no more than what they were accus- 
tomed to. At least, my mother and Annie 
said so, without waiting to hear any more ; 
but Lizzie did not answer to it until I had 
opened my bag and shown the beautiful 
present I had for her. And then she kissed 
me almost like Annie, and vowed that she 
thought very little of captains. 

For Lizzie’s present was the best of all, I 
mean of course except Lorna’s (which I car- 
ried in my breast all the way, hoping that 
it might make her love me, from having lain 
so long close to my heart). For I had 
brought Lizzie something dear, aud a pre- 
cious heavy book it was, and much beyond 
my understanding : whereas I knew well 
that to both the others my gifts would be 
dear, for mine own sake. And happier peo- 
ple could not be found than the whole of us 
were that evening. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

JOHN HAS HOPE OF LORNA. 

Much as I longed to know more about 
Lorna, and though all my heart was yearn- 
ing, I could not reconcile it yet with my 
duty to mother and Annie, to leave them on 
the following day, which happened to be a 
Sunday. For lo, before breakfast was out 
of our mouths, there came all the men of the 
farm, and their wives, and even the two 
crow-boys, dressed as if going to Barnstaple 
Fair, to inquire how Master John was, and 
whether it was true that the King had made 
him one of his body-guard ; and if so, what 
was to be done with the belt for the cham- 
pionship of the West Counties wrestling, 
which I had held now for a year or 
more, and none were ready to challenge it. 
Strange to say, this last point seemed the 
most important of all to them ; and none 
asked who was to manage the farm, or an- 
swer for their wages ; but all asked who 
was to wear the belt. 

To this I replied, after shaking hands 


94 


LORNA DOONE. 


twice over all round with all of them, that 
I meant to wear the belt myself, for the hon- 
or of Oare parish, so long as ever God gave 
me strength and health to meet all comers : 
for I had never been asked to be body-guard ; 
and if asked I would never have done it. 
Some of them cried that the King must be 
mazed, not to keep me for his protection, in 
these violent times of Popery. I could have 
told them that the King was not in the least 
afraid of Papists, but, on the contrary, very 
fond of them; however, I held my tongue, 
remembering what Judge Jeffreys bade me. 

In church, the whole congregation, man, 
woman, and child (except indeed the Snowe 
girls, who only looked when I was not 
watching), turned on me with one accord, 
and stared so steadfastly, to get some re- 
flection of the King from me, that they for- 
got the time to kneel down, and the parson 
was forced to speak to them. If I cough- 
ed, or moved my book, or bowed, or even 
said “Amen,” glances were exchanged which 
meant — “That he hath learned in London 
town, and most likely from His Majesty.” 

However, all this went off in time; and 
people became even angry with me for not 
being sharper (as they said), or smarter, or 
a whit more fashionable, for all the great 
company I had seen, and all the wondrous 
things wasted upon me. 

But though I may have been none the 
wiser by reason of my stay in London, at 
any rate I was much the better in virtue of 
coming home again. For now I had learned 
the joy of quiet, and the gratitude for good 
things round Us, and the love we owe to 
others (even those who must be kind), for 
their indulgence to us. All this, before my 
journey, had been too much as a matter of 
course to me ; but having missed it now, I 
knew that it was a gift, and might be lost. 
Moreover, I had pined so much, in the dust 
and heat of that great town, for trees, and 
fields, and running waters, and the sounds 
of country life, and the air of country winds, 
that never more could I grow weary of those 
soft enjoyments; or at least I thought so 
then. 

To awake as the summer sun came slant- 
ing over the hill -tops, with hope on every 
beam adance to the laughter of the morning; 
to see the leaves across the window ruffling 
on the fresh new air, and the tendrils of the 
powdery vine turning from their beaded 
sleep. Then the lustrous meadows far be- 
yond the thatch of the garden-well, yet seen 
beneath the hanging scollops of the wal- 
nut-tree, all awaking, dressed in pearl, all 
amazed at their own glistening, like a maid 
at her own ideas. Down them troop the 
lowing kine, walking each with a step of 
character (even as men and women do), yet 
all alike with toss of horns, and spread of 
udders ready. From them, » without a word, 
we turn to the farm -yard proper, seen on 


the right, and dryly strawed from the petty 
rush of the pitch-paved runnel. Round it 
stand the snug out -buildings, barn, corn- 
chamber, cider-press, stables, with a blink- 
ered horse in every door -way munching, 
while his driver tightens buckles, whistles 
and looks down the lane, dallying to be- 
gin his labor till the milkmaids be gone by. 
Here the cock comes forth at last ; — where 
has he been lingering? — eggs may tell to- 
morrow — he claps his wings and shouts 
“ cock- a- doodle ;” and no other cock dare 
look at him. Two or three go sideling off, 
waiting till their spurs be grown ; and then 
the crowd of partlets comes, chattering how 
their lord has dreamed, and crowed at two- 
in the morning, and praying that the old 
brown rat would only dare to face him. But 
while the cock is crowing still, and the pul- 
let world admiring him, who comes up but 
the old turkey-cock, with all his family 
round him. Then the geese at the lower 
end begin to thrust their breasts out, and 
mum their down-bits, and look at the gan- 
der and scream shrill joy for the conflict; 
while the ducks in pond show nothing but 
tail, in proof of their strict neutrality. 

While yet we dread for the coming event, 
and the fight which would jar on the morn- 
ing, behold the grandmother of sows, gruffly 
grunting right and left with muzzle which 
no ring may tame (not being matrimonial), 
hulks across between the two, moving all 
each side at once, and then all of the other 
side, as if she were chined down the middle, 
and afraid of spilling the salt from her. As 
this mighty view of lard hides each combat- 
ant from the other, gladly each retires and 
boasts how he would have slain bis neigh- 
bor, but that old sow drove the other away, 
and no wonder he was afraid of her, after 
all the chicks she has eaten. 

And so it goes on ; and so the sun comes, 
stronger from his drink -of dew ; and the 
cattle in the byres, and the horses from the 
stable, and the men from cottage door, each 
has had his rest and food, all smell alike of 
hay and straw, and every one must hie to 
work, be it drag, or draw, or delve. 

So thought I on the Monday morning; 
while my own work lay before me, and I 
was plotting how to quit it, void of harm to 
every one, and let my love have work a lit- 
tle — hardest perhaps of all work, and yet as 
sure as sunrise. I knew that my first day’s 
task on the farm would be strictly watched 
by every one, even by my gentle mother, to 
see what I had learned in London. But 
could I let still another day pass, for Lorna 
to think me faithless ? 

I felt much inclined to tell dear mother 
all about Lorna, and how I loved her, yet 
had no hope of winning her. Often and oft- 
en I had longed to do this, and have done 
with it. But the thought of my father’s 
terrible death at the hands of the Doones 


LORNA DOONE. 


95 


prevented me. And it seemed to me foolish 
and mean to grieve mother, without any 
chance of my suit ever speeding. If once 
Lorn a loved me, my mother should know it ; 
and it would be the greatest happiuess to 
me to have uo concealment from her, though 
at first she was sure to grieve terribly. But 
I saw no more chance of Lorna loving me, 
than of the man in the moon coming down ; 
or rather of the moon coming down to the 
man, as related in old mythology. 

Now the merriment of the small birds, 
and the clear voice of the waters, and the 
lowing of cattle in meadows, and the view 
of no houses (except just our own and a 
neighbor’s), and the knowledge of every 
body around, their kindness of heart and 
simplicity, and love of their neighbor’s do- 
ings — all these could not help or please me 
at all, and many of them were much against 
me, in my secret depth of longing and dark 
tumult of the mind. Many people may 
think me foolish, especially after coming 
from London, where many nice maids look- 
ed at me (on account of my bulk and stat- 
ure) and I might have been fitted up with 
a sweetheart, in spite of my west-country 
twang, and the smallness of my purse, if 
only I had said the word. But nay ; I have 
contempt for a man whose heart is like a 
shirt-stud (such as I saw in London cards), 
fitted into one to-day, sitting bravely on the 
breast ; plucked out on the morrow morn, 
and the place that knew it, gone. 

Now, what did I do but take my chance ; 
reckless whether any one heeded me or not, 
only craving Lorna’s heed, and time for ten 
words to her. Therefore I left the men of 
the farm as far away as might be, after 
making them work with me (which no man 
round our parts could do, to his own satis- 
faction) and then knowing them to be well 
weary, very unlike to follow me — and still 
more unlike to tell of me, for each had his 
London present — I strode right away, in 
good trust of my speed, without any more 
misgivings ; but resolved to face the worst 
of it, and to try to be home for supper. 

And first I went, I know not why, to the 
crest of the broken highland, whence I had 
agreed to watch for any mark or signal. 
And, sure enough, at last I saw (when it 
was too late to see) that the white stone had 
been covered over with a cloth or mantle — 
the sign that something had arisen to make 
Lorna want me. For a moment I stood 
amazed at my evil fortune ; that I should 
be too late in the very thing of all things 
on which my heart was set ! Then, after 
eying sorrowfully every crick and cranny, 
to be sure that not a single flutter of my 
love was visible, olf I set, with small respect 
either for my knees or neck, to make the 
round of the outer cliffs, and come up my 
old access. . 

Nothing could stop me ; it was not long, 


although to me it seemed an age, before I 
stood in the niche of rock at the head of the 
slippery water-course, and gazed into the 
quiet gleu, where my foolish heart was dwell- 
ing. Notwithstanding doubts of right, not- 
withstanding sense of duty, and despite all 
manly striving, and the great love of my 
home, there my heart was ever dwelling, 
knowing what a fool it was, and content to- 
know it. 

Many birds came twittering round me in 
the gold of August; many trees showed 
twinkling beauty as the sun went lower, 
and the lines of water fell, from wrinkles 
into dimples. Little heeding, there I crouch- 
ed ; though with sense of every thing that 
afterward should move me, like a picture or 
a dream, and every thing went by me softly 
while my heart was gazing. 

At last a little figure came, not insignifi- 
cant (I mean), but looking very light and 
slender in the moving shadows, gently here 
and softly there, as if vague of purpose, with 
a gloss of tender movement, in and out the 
wealth of trees, aud liberty of the meadow. 
Who was I to crouch, or doubt, or look at 
her from a distance; what matter if they 
killed me now, and one tear came to bury 
me ? Therefore I rushed out at once, as if 
shot-guns were unknown yet ; not from any 
real courage, but from prisoned love burst 
forth. 

I know not whether my own Lorna was 
afraid of what I looked, or what I might say 
to her, or of her own thoughts of me : all I 
know is that she looked frightened when I 
hoped for gladness. Perhaps the power of 
my joy was more than maiden liked to own, 
or in any way to answer to ; and, to tell the 
truth, it seemed as if I might now forget 
myself; while she would take good care of 
it. This makes a man grow thoughtful; 
unless, as some low fellows do, he believe all 
women hypocrites. 

Therefore I went slowly toward her, taken 
back in my impulse; and said all I could 
come to say, with some distress in doing it. 

“ Mistress Lorna, I had hope that you were 
in need of me.” 

“Oh yes; but that was long ago; two 
months ago, or more, sir.” And saying this 
she looked away, as if it all were over. But 
I was now so dazed and frightened that it 
took my breath away, and I could not an- 
swer, feeling sure that I was robbed and 
some one else had won her. And I tried to 
turn away, without another word, and go. 

But I could not help one stupid sob, though 
mad with myself for allowing it, but it came 
too sharp for pride to stay it, and it told a 
world of things. Lorna heard it, and ran 
to me, with her bright eyes full of wonder, 
pity, and great kindness, as if amazed that I 
had more than a simple liking for her. Then 
she held out both hands to me, and I took 
and looked at them. 


96 


LORNA DOONE. 


“ Master Ridd, I did not mean/’ she whis- 
pered very softly, “ I did not mean to vex 
you.” 

“ If you would he loath to vex me, none 
else in this world can do it,” I answered out 
of my great love, hut fearing yet to look at 
her, mine eyes not being strong enough. 

“ Come away from this bright place,” she 
answered, trembling in her turn; “I am 
watched and spied of late. Come beneath 
the shadows, John.” 

“ I would have leaped into the valley of 
the shadow of death (as described by the 
late John Bunyan), only to hear her call 
me “John;” though Apollyon were lurking 
there, and Despair should lock me in. 

She stole across the silent grass; hut I 
strode hotly after her; fear was all beyond 
me now, except the fear of losing her. I could 
not hut behold her manner, as she went be- 
fore me, all her grace, and lovely sweetness, 
and her sense of what she was. 

She led me to her own rich bower, which 
I told of once before; and if in spring it 
were a sight, what was it in summer glory ? 
But although my mind had notice of its 
fairness and its wonder, not a heed my heart 
took of it, neither dwelt it in my presence 
more than flowing water. All that in my 
presence dwelt, all that in my heart was 
felt, was the maiden moving gently, and 
afraid to look at me. 

For now the power of my love was abid- 
ing on her, new to her, unknown to her ; not 
a thing to speak about, nor even to think 
clearly; only just to feel and wonder, with 
a pain of sweetness. She could look at me 
no more, neither could she look away, with 
a studied manner — only to let fall her eyes, 
and blush, and he put out with me, and still 
more with herself. 

I left her quite alone ; though close, though 
tingling to have hold of her. Even her 
right hand was dropped and lay among the 
mosses. Neither did I try to steal one 
glimpse below her eyelids. Life and death 
were hanging on the first glance I should 
win ; yet I let it be so. 

After long or short — I know not, yet ere I 
was weary, ere I yet began to think or wish 
for any answer — Lorna slowly raised her 
eyelids, with a gleam of dew below them, 
and looked at me doubtfully. Any look 
with so much in it never met my gaze be- 
fore. 

“Darling, do you love me?” was all that 
I could say to her. 

“ Yes, I like you very much,” she answer- 
ed, with her eyes gone from me, and her 
dark hair falling over, so as not to show me 
things. 

“ But do you love me, Lorna, Lorna ; do 
you love me more than all the world ?” 

“ No, to be sure not. Now why should I ?” 

“In truth, I know not why you should. 
Only I hoped that you did, Lorna. Either 


love me not at all, or as I love you, for- 
ever.” 

“John, I love you very much ; .and I would 
not grieve you. You are the bravest, and 
the kindest, and the simplest of all men — I 
mean of all people — I like you very much, 
Master Ridd, and I think of you almost ev- 
ery day.” 

“ That will not do for me, Lorna. Not al- 
most every day I think, hut every instant 
of my life, of you. For you I would give up 
my home, my love of all the world beside, 
my duty to my dearest ones; for you I 
would give up my life, and hope of life be- 
yond it. Do you love me so ?” 

“ Not by any means,” said Lorna ; “ no ; I 
like you very much when you do not talk so 
wildly ; and I like to see you come as if you 
would fill our valley up, and I like to think 
that even Carver would be nothing in your 
hands — but as to liking you like that, what 
should make it likely? especially when I 
have made the signal, and for some two 
months or more you have never even an- 
swered it! If you like me so ferociously, 
why do you leave me for other people to do 
just as they like with me?” 

“ To do as they liked ! Oh, Lorna, not to 
make you marry Carver ?” 

“ No, Master Ridd, be not frightened so ; 
it makes me fear to look at you.” 

“ But you have not married Carver yet ? 
Say quick ! Why keep me waiting so ?” 

“ Of course I have not, Master Ridd. 
Should I be here if I had, think you, and 
allowing you to like me so, and to hold my 
hand, and make me laugh, as I declare you 
almost do sometimes? And at other times 
you frighten me.” 

“Did they want you to marry Carver? 
Tell me all the truth of it.” 

“ Not yet, not yet. They are not half so 
impetuous as you are, John. I am only just 
seventeen, you know, and who is to think of 
marrying ? But they wanted me to give my 
word, and be formally betrothed to him in 
the presence of my grandfather. It seems 
that something frightened them. There is 
a youth named Charleworth Doone, every 
one calls him “ Charlie ;” a headstrong and 
gay young man, very gallant in his looks 
and manner ; and my uncle, the Counselor, 
chose to fancy that Charlie looked at me too 
much coming by my grandfather’s cottage.” 

Here Lorna blushed so that I was frio-fit- 

O 

ened, and began to hate this Charlie more, a 
great deal more, than even Carver Doone. 

“ He had better not,” said I ; “ I will fling 
him over it, if he dare. He shall see thee 
through the roof, Lorna, if at all he see thee.” 

“ Master Ridd, you are worse than Car- 
ver ! I thought you were so kind-hearted. 
Well, they wanted me to promise, and even 
to swear a solemn oath (a thing I have nev- 
er done in my life) that I would wed my eld- 
est cousin, this same Carver Doone, who is 


LORNA DOONE. 


97 


twice as old as I am, being thirty-five and 
upward. That was why I gave the token 
that I wished to see you, Master Ridd. They 
pointed out how much it was for the peace 
of all the family, aud for mine own benefit ; 
but I would not listen for a moment, though 
the Counselor was most eloquent, and my 
grandfather begged me to consider, and Car- 
ver smiled his pleasantest, which is a truly 
frightful thing. Then both he and his crafty 
father were for using force with me; but 
Sir Ensor would not hear of it; and they 
have put off that extreme until he shall be 
past its knowledge, or at least beyond pre- 
venting it. And now I am watched, and 
spied, and followed, and half my little lib- 
erty seems to be taken from me. I could 
not be here speaking with you, even in my 
own nook and refuge, but for the aid, and 
skill, and courage of dear little Gwenny Car- 
fax. She is now my chief reliance, and 
through her alone I hope to baffle all my en- 
emies, since others have forsaken me.” 

Tears of sorrow and reproach were lurk- 
ing in her soft dark eyes, until in fewest 
words I told her that my seeming negligence 
was nothing but my bitter loss and wretch- 
ed absence far away ; of which I had so vain- 
ly striven to give any tidings without dan- 
ger to her. When she heard all this, and 
saw what I had brought from London 
(which was nothing less than a ring of 
pearls with a sapphire in the midst of them, 
as pretty as could well be found), she let the 
gentle tears flow fast, and came and sat so 
close beside me, that I trembled like a fold- 
ed sheep at the bleating of her lamb. But 
recovering comfort quickly, without more 
ado I raised her left hand and observed it 
with a nice regard, wondering at the small 
blue veins, and curves, and tapering white- 
ness, and the points it finished with. My 
wonder seemed to please her much, herself 
so well accustomed to it, and not fond of 
watching it. And then, before she could say 
a word, or guess what I was up to, as quick 
as ever I turned hand at a bout of wrestling, 
on her finger was my ring — sapphire for the 
veins of blue, and pearls to match white fin- 
gers. 

“Oh, you crafty Master Ridd!” said Lor- 
na, looking up at me, and blushing now a 
far brighter blush than when she spoke of 
Charlie; “I thought that you were much 
too simple ever to do this sort of thing. No 
wonder you can catch the fish, as when first 
I saw you.” 

“ Have I caught you, little fish ? Or must 
all my life be spent in hopeless angling for 
you ?” 

“Neither one nor the other, John! You 
have not caught me yet altogether, though I 
like you dearly, John ; and if you will only 
keep away, I shall like you more and more. 
As for hopeless angling, John, that all others 
frhall have until I tell you otherwise.” 

7 


With the large tears in her eyes — tears 
which seemed to me to rise partly from her 
want to love me with the power of my love 
— she put her pure bright lips, half smiling, 
half prone to reply to tears, against my fore- 
head lined with trouble, doubt, and eager 
longing. Aud then she drew my ring from 
off that snowy twig her finger, and held it 
out to me; aud then, seeing how my face 
was falling, thrice she touched it with her 
lips, and sweetly gave it back to me. “John, 
I dare not take it now ; else I should be 
cheating you. I will try to love you dearly, 
even as you deserve and wish. Keep it for 
me just till then. Something tells me I shall 
earn it iu a very little time. Perhaps you 
will be sorry then, sorry when it is all too 
late, to be loved by such as I am.” 

What could I do, at her mournful tone, 
but kiss a thousand times the hand which 
she put up to warn me, and vow that I would 
rather die with one assurance of her love, 
than without it live forever with all beside 
that the world could give ? Upon this she 
looked so lovely, with her dark eyelashes 
trembling, and her soft eyes full of light, 
and the color of clear sunrise mounting on 
her cheeks and brow, that I was forced to 
turn away, being overcome with beauty. 

“ Dearest darling, love of my life,” I whis- 
pered through her clouds of hair ; “ how long 
must I wait to know — how long must I lin- 
ger doubting whether you can ever stoop 
from your birth and wondrous beauty to a 
poor coarse hind like me, an ignorant, unlet- 
tered yeoman — ” 

“ I will not have you revile yourself,” said 
Lorna, very tenderly — just as I had meant 
to make her. “ You are not rude aud un- 
lettered, John. You know a great deal more 
than I do : you have learned both Greek and 
Latin, as you told me long ago, aud you have 
been at the very best school in the West of 
England. None of us but my grandfather 
and the Counselor (who is a great scholar) 
can compare with you in this. And though 
I have laughed at your manner of speech, I 
only laughed in fun, John ; I never meant 
to vex you by it, nor knew that I had done 
so.” 

“ Naught you say can vex me, dear,” I an- 
swered, as she leaned toward me, in her gen- 
erous sorrow ; “ unless you say, 1 Begone, 
John Ridd ; I love another more than you.’” 

“ Then I shall never vex you, John — nev- 
er, I mean, by saying that. Now, John, if 
you please, be quiet — ” 

For I was cafried away so much by hear- 
ing her call me “John” so often, and the 
music of her voice, and the way she bent to- 
ward me, and the shadow of soft weeping in 
the sunlight of her eyes, that some of my 
great hand was creeping in a manner not to 
be imagined, and far less explained, toward 
the lithesome, wholesome curving under- 
neath her mantle-fold, and out of sight and 


98 


LOENA DOONE. 


harm, as I thought; not being her front 
waist. However, I was dashed with that, 
and pretended not to mean it ; only to pluck 
some lady-fern, whose elegance did me no 
good. 

“Now, John!” said Lorna, being so quick 
that not even a lover could cheat her, and 
observing my confusion more intently than 
she need have done. “ Master John Kidd, 
it is high time for you to go home to your 
mother. I love your mother very much from 
what you have told me about her, and I will 
not have her cheated.” 

“ If you truly love my mother,” said I, 
very craftily, “ the only way to show it is by 
truly loving me.” 

Upon that she laughed at me in the sweet- 
est manner, and with such provoking ways, 
and such come-and-go of glances, and be- 
ginning of quick blushes, which she tried to 
laugh away, that I knew, as well as if she 
herself had told me, by some knowledge 
(void of reasoning, and the surer for it), I 
knew quite well, while all my heart was 
burning hot within me, and mine eyes were 
shy of hers, and her eyes were shy of mine ; 
for certain and forever this I knew — as in a 
glory — that Lorna Doone had now begun 
and would go on to love me. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

REAPING LEADS TO REVELING. 

Although I was under interdict for two 
months from my darling — “one for your 
sake, one for mine,” she had whispered, with 
her head withdrawn, yet not so very far from 
me — lighter heart was not on Exmoor than 
I bore for half the time, and even for three 
quarters. For she was safe; I knew that 
daily by a mode of signals, well-contrived 
between us now, on the strength of our ex- 
perience. “ I have nothing now to fear, 
John,” she had said to me, as we parted ; 
“ it is true that I am spied and watched, 
but Gwenny is too keen for them. While I 
have my grandfather to prevent all violence, 
and little Gwenny to keep watch on those 
who try to watch me, and you above all 
others, John, ready at a moment, if the worst 
comes to the worst — this neglected Lorna 
Doone was never in such case before. There- 
fore do not squeeze my hand, John ; I am 
safe without it, and you do not know your 
strength.” 

Ah, I knew my strength right well. Hill 
and valley scarcely seemed to be step and 
landing for me ; fiercest cattle I would play 
with, making them go backward, and afraid 
of hurting them, like John Fry with his 
terrier ; even rooted trees seemed to me but 
as sticks I could smite down, except for my 
love of every thing. The love of all things 
was upon me, and a softness to them all, and 


a sense of having something even such as 
they had. 

Then the golden harvest came, waving on 
the broad hill-side, and nestling in the quiet 
nooks scooped from out the fringe of wood 
— a wealth of harvest such as never glad- 
dened all our country-side since my father 
ceased to reap, and his sickle hung to rust. 
There had not been a man on Exmoor fit to 
work that reaping-hook since the time its 
owner fell, in the prime of life and strength, 
before a sterner reaper. But now I took it 
from the wall, where mother proudly stored 
it, while she watched me, hardly knowing 
whether she should smile or cry. 

All the parish was assembled in our up- 
per court - yard ; -for we were to open the 
harvest that year, as had been settled with 
Farmer Nicholas, and with Jasper Kebby, 
who held the third or little farm. We 
started in proper order, therefore, as our 
practice is; first, the parson, Josiah Bow- 
den, wearing his gown and cassock, with 
the parish Bible in his hand, and a sickle 
strapped behind him. As he strode along 
well and stoutly, being a man of substance, 
all our family came next, I leading mother 
with one hand, in the other bearing my fa- 
ther’s hook, and with a loaf of our own bread 
and a keg of cider upon my back. Behind 
us Annie and Lizzie walked, wearing wreaths 
of corn-flowers, set out very prettily, such as 
mother would have worn, if she had been a 
farmer’s wife instead of a farmer’s widow. 
Being as she was, she had no adornment, 
except that her widow’s hood was olf, and 
her hair allowed to flow, as if she had been 
a maiden ; and very rich bright hair it was, 
in spite of all her troubles. 

After us the maidens came, milkmaids and 
the rest of them, with Betty Muxworthy at 
their head, scolding even now, because they 
would not walk fitly. But they only laugh- 
ed at her ; and she knew it was no good to 
scold, with all the men behind them. 

Then the Snowes came trooping forward ; 
Farmer Nicholas in the middle, walking as 
if he would rather walk to a wheat-field of 
his own, yet content to follow lead, because 
he knew himself the leader ; and signing 
every now and then to the people here and 
there, as if I were nobody. But to see his 
three great daughters, strong and handsome 
wenches, making upon either side, as if some- 
body would run off with them — this was 
the very thing that taught me how to value 
Lorna, and her pure simplicity. 

After the Snowes came Jasper Kebby, 
with ' his wife new - married ; and a very- 
honest pair they were, upon only a hundred 
acres, and a right of common. After these 
the men came hotly, without decent order, 
trying to spy the girls in front, and make 
good jokes about them, at which their wives 
laughed heartily, being jealous when alone, 
perhaps. And after these men and their 


LORNA DOONE. 


99 


wives came all the children toddling, pick- 
ing flowers by the way, and chattering and 
asking questions, as the children will. There 
must have been three-score of us, take one 
with another ; and the lane was full of peo- 
ple. When we were come to the big field- 
gate, where the first sickle was to be, Par- 
son Bowden heaved up the rail with the 
sleeves of his gown done green with it ; and 
he said that every body might hear him, 
though his breath was short, “ In the name 
of the Lord, Amen !” 

“Amen! So be it!” cried the clerk, who 
was far behind, being only a shoe-maker. 

Then Parson Bowden read some verses 
from the parish Bible, telling us to lift up 
our eyes, and look upon the fields already 
white to harvest; and then he laid the Bi- 
ble down on the square head of the gate- 
post, and, despite his gown and cassock, 
three good swipes he cut of corn, and laid 
them right end onward. All this time the 
rest were huddling outside the gate and 
along the lane, not daring to interfere with 
parson, but whispering how well he did it. 

When he had stowed the corn like that, 
mother entered, leaning on me, and we both 
said, u Thank the Lord for all his mercies, 
and these the first-fruits of his hand !” And 
then the clerk gave out a psalm verse by 
verse, done very well ; although he sneezed 
in the midst of it, from a beard of wheat 
thrust up his nose by the rival cobbler at 
Brendon. And when the psalm was sung, 
so strongly that the foxgloves on the bank 
were shaking, like a chime of bells, at it, 
Parson took a stoop of cider, and we all fell 
to at reaping. 

Of course I mean the men, not women, al- 
though I know that up the country women 
are allowed to reap ; and right well they 
reap it, keeping row for row with men, 
comely, and in due order, yet, meseems, the 
men must ill attend to their own reaping- 
hooks, in fear lest the other cut themselves, 
being the weaker vessel. But in our part 
women do what seems their proper busi- 
ness, following well behind the men, out of 
harm of the swinging -hook, and stooping 
with their breasts and arms up they catch 
the swathes of corn, where the reapers cast 
them, and tucking them together tightly 
with a wisp laid under them, this they 
fetch around and twist, with a knee to keep 
it close ; and lo, there is a goodly sheaf, 
ready to set up in stooks ! After these the 
children come, gathering each for his little 
self, if the farmer be right-minded, until 
each hath a bundle made as big as himself 
and longer, and tumbles now and again with 
it, in the deeper part of the stubble. 

We, the men, kept marching onward down 
the flank of the yellow wall, with knees bent 
■wide, and left arm bowed, and right arm 
flashing steel. Each man in his several 
place, keeping down the rig or chine on the 


right side of the reaper in front, and the left 
of the man that followed him ; each making 
farther sweep and inroad into the golden 
breadth and depth, each casting leftward 
his rich clearance on his foregoer’s double 
track. 

So like half a wedge of wild-fowl, to and 
fro we swept the field ; and when to either 
hedge we came, sickles wanted whetting, and 
throats required moistening, and backs were 
in need of easing, and every man had much 
to say, and women wanted praising. Then 
all returned to the other end, with reaping- 
hooks beneath our arms, and dogs left to 
mind jackets. 

But now, will you believe me well, or will 
you only laugh at me? For even in the 
world of wheat, when deep among the var- 
nished crispness of the jointed stalks, and 
below the feathered yielding of the graceful 
heads, even as I gripped the swathes and 
swept the sickle round them, even as I flung 
them by to rest on brother stubble, through 
the whirling yellow world, and eagerness of 
reaping, came the vision of my love, as with 
downcast eyes she wondered at my power of 
passion. And then the sweet remembrance 
glowed, brighter than the sun through wheat, 
through my very depth of heart, of how she 
raised those beaming eyes, and ripened in 
my breast rich hope. Even now I could 
descry, like high waves in the distance, the 
rounded heads and folded shadows of the 
wood of Bagworthy. Perhaps she was walk- 
ing in the valley, and softly gazing up at 
them. Oh, to be a bird just there ! I could 
see a bright mist hanging just above the 
Doone Glen. Perhaps it was shedding its 
drizzle upon her. Oh, to be a drop of rain ! 
The very breeze which bowed the harvest 
to my bosom gently might have come direct 
from Lorna, with her sweet voice laden. Ah, 
the flaws of air that wander where they will 
around her, fan her bright cheek, play with 
lashes, even revel in her hair and reveal her 
beauties — man is but a breath, we know; 
would I were such breath as that ! 

But confound it, while I ponder, with de- 
licious dreams suspended, with my right 
arm hanging frustrate and the giant sickle 
drooped, with my left arm bowed for clasp- 
ing something more germane than wheat, 
and my eyes not minding business, but in- 
tent on distant woods — confound it, what 
are the men about, and why am I left va- 
poring? They have taken advantage of 
me, the rogues ! They are gone to the hedge 
for the cider-jars; they have had up the 
sledd of bread and meat, quite softly over 
the stubble, and if I can believe my eyes 
(so dazed with Lorna’s image), they are sit- 
ting down to an excellent dinner before the 
church clock has gone eleven ! 

“ John Fry, you big villain !” I cried, with 
John hanging up in the air by the scuff of 
his neckcloth, but holding still by his knife 


100 


LORNA DOONE. 


and fork, and a goose -leg in between Ms 
lips, “ John Fry, what mean you by this, 
sir ?” 

“ Latt me dowun, or I can’t tell ’e,” John 
answered, with some difficulty. So I let 
liim come down, and I must confess that he 
had reason on his side. “ Plaise your wor- 
ship” — Johu called me so ever since I re- 
turned from London, firmly believing that 
the King had made me a magistrate at 
least ; though I was to keep it secret — “ us 
zeed as how your worship were took with 
thinkiu’ of King’s business in the middle 
of the whate-rigg ; and so us zed , 1 Latt un 
coom to his zell, us had better zave taime, 
by takking our dinner;’ and here us be, 
plaise your worship, and hopps no offense 
with thick iron spoon full of vried taties.” 

I was glad enough to accept the ladleful 
of fried batatas, and to make the best of 
things, which is generally done by letting 
men have their own way. Therefore I man- 
aged to dine with them, although it was so 
early. 

For according to all that I can find, in a 
long life and a varied one, twelve o’clock is 
the real time for a man to have his dinner. 
Then the sun is at his noon, calling halt to 
look around, and then the plants and leaves 
are turning, each with a little leisure time, 
before the work of the afternoon. Then is 
the balance of east and west, and then the 
right and left side of a man are in due pro- 
portion, and contribute fairly with harmoni- 
ous fluids. And the health of this mode 
of life and its reclaiming virtue are well set 
forth in our ancient rhyme, 


All the while our darling Annie, with her 
sleeves tucked up, and her comely figure 
panting, w r as running about with a bucket 
of taties mashed with lard and cabbage. 
Even Lizzie had left her books, and was 
serving out beer and cider; while mother 
helped plum - pudding largely on pewter 
plates with the mutton. And all the time 
Betty Muxworthy was granting in and out 
everywhere, not having space to scold even, 
but changing the dishes, serving the meat, 
poking the fire, and cooking more. But 
John Fry would not stir a peg, except with 
his knife and fork, having all the airs of 
a visitor, and his wife to keep him eat- 
ing, till I thought there would be no end 
of it. 

Then having eaten all they could, they 
prepared themselves, with one accord, for 
the business now of drinking. But first 
they lifted the neck of corn, dressed with 
ribbons gayly, and set it upon the mantel- 
piece, each man with his horn a-froth ; and 
then they sang a song about it, every one 
shouting in the chorus louder than harvest 
thunder-storm. Some were in the middle 
of one verse, and some at the end of the next 
one ; yet somehow all managed to get to- 
gether in the mighty roar of»the burden. 
And if any farmer up the country would 
like to know Exmoor harvest-song as sung 
in my time, and will be sung long after I 
am garnered home, lo, here I set it down for 
him, omitting only the dialect, which per- 
chance might puzzle him. 

EXMOOR HARYEST-SONG. 


“Sunrise, breakfast; sun high, dinner; 

Sundown, sup ; makes a saint of a sinner.” 

Whish, the wheat falls ! Whirl again; ye 
have had good dinners; give your master 
and mistress plenty to supply another year. 
And in truth we did reap well and fairly 
through the whole of that afternoon, I not 
only keeping lead, but keeping the men up 
to it. We got through a matter of ten acres 
ere the sun between the shocks broke his 
light on wheaten plumes, then hung his red 
cloak on the clouds, and fell into gray slum- 
ber. 

Seeing this, we wiped our sickles, and our 
breasts and foreheads, and soon were on the 
homeward road, looking forward to good 
supper. 

Of course all the reapers came at night to 
the harvest-supper, and Parson Bowden to 
say the grace as well as to help to carve for 
us. And some help was needed there, I can 
well assure you ; for the reapers had brave 
appetites; and most of their wives having 
babies, w T ere forced to eat as a duty. Nei- 
ther failed they of this duty ; cut and come 
again was the order of the evening, as it had 
been of the day ; and I had no time to ask 
questions, but help meat aud ladle gravy. 


1. 

The corn, oh the corn, *tis the ripening of the corn ! 

Go unto the door, my lad, and look beneath the 
moon, 

Thou canst see, beyond the woodrick, how it is yel- 
loon : 

’Tis the harvesting of wheat, and the barley must be 
shorn. 

{Chorus.) 

The corn, oh the corn, and the yellow, mellow corn ! 

Here’s to the corn, with the cups upon the board ! 

We’ve been reaping all the day, and we’ll reap again 
the morn, 

And fetch it home to mow -yard, and then we’ll 
thank the Lord. 

2 . 

The wheat, oh the wheat, ’tis the ripening of the 
wheat ! 

All the day it has been hanging down its heavy 
head, 

Bowing over on our bosoms with a beard of red : 

’Tis the harvest, and the value makes the labor sweet. 

{Chorus.) 

The wheat, oh the wheat, and the golden, golden 
wheat ! 

Here’s to the wheat, with the loaves upon the 
board ! 

We’ve been reaping all the day, and we never will be 
beat, 

But fetch it all to mow-yard, and then we’ll thank 
the Lord. 


LORNA DOONE. 


101 


s. 

The barley, oh the barley, and the barley is in prime ! 
All the day it has been rustling with its bristles 
brown, 

Waiting with its beard a > bowing, till it can be 
mown ! 

’Tis the harvest, and the barley must abide its time. 
{Chorus.) 

The barley, oh the barley, and the barley ruddy 
brown ! 

Here’s to the barley, with the beer upon the board ! 
We’ll go a-mowing, soon as ever all the wheat is down ; 
When all is in the mow-yard, we’ll stop, and thank 
the Lord. 

4 . 

The oats, oh the oats, ’tis the ripening of the oats ! 
All the day they have been dancing with their flakes 
of white, 

Waiting for the girding - hook, to be the nags’ de- 
light: 

’Tis the harvest, let them dangle in their skirted 
coats. 

{Chorus.) 

The oats, oh the oats, and the silver, silver oats ! 
Here’s to the oats with the back -stone on the 
board 1 

We’ll go among them when the barley has been laid 
in rotes : 

When all is home to mow -yard, we’ll kneel and 
thank the Lord. 

5 . 

The corn, oh the corn, and the blessing of the corn 1 
Come unto the door, my lads, and look beneath the 
moon, 

We can see, on hill and valley, how it is yelloon, 
With a breadth of glory, as when our Lord was born. 

{Chorus.) 

The corn, oh the corn, and the yellow, mellow corn 1 
Thanks for the corn, with our bread upon the 
board 1 

So shall we acknowledge it, before we reap the morn, 
With our hands to heaven, and our knees unto the 
Lord. 

Now we sang this song very well the first 
time, having the parish choir to lead us, and 
the clarionet, and the parson to give us the 
time with his cup ; aud we sang it again the 
second time, not so but what you might 
praise it (if you had been with us all the 
eveniug), although the parson was gone then, 
and the clerk not fit to compare with him in 
the matter of keeping time. But when that 
song was in its third singing, I defy any 
man (however sober) to have made out one 
verse from the other, or even the burden 
from the verses, inasmuch as every man 
present, ay, and woman too, saug as became 
convenient to them, iu utterance both of 
words aud tune. 

And iu truth there was much excuse for 
them ; because it was a noble harvest, fit to 
thank the Lord for, without his thinking us 
hypocrites. For we had more land in wheat 
that year than ever we had before, and twice 
the crop to the acre ; and I could not help 
now and then remembering, in the midst of 
the merriment, how my father in the church- 
yard yonder would have gloried to behold 


it. And my mother, who had left us now, 
happening to return just then, being called 
to have her health drunk (for the twentieth 
time at least), I knew by the sadness in her 
eyes that she was thinking just as I was. 
Presently, therefore, I slipped away from 
the noise, and mirth, and smoking (although 
of that last there was not much, except from 
Farmer Nicholas), and crossing the court- 
yard in the moonlight, I went, just to cool 
myself, as far as my father’s tombstone. 

<► 

CHAPTER XXX. 

ANNIE GETS THE BEST OF IT. 

I had long outgrown unwholesome feel- 
ing as to my father’s death, and so had An- 
nie; though Lizzie (who must have loved 
him least) still entertained some evil will, 
and longing for a punishment. Therefore I 
was surprised (and indeed startled would 
not be too much to say, the moon being 
somewhat fleecy) to see our Annie sitting 
there as motionless as the tombstone, and 
with all her best fal-lals upon her, after 
stowing away the dishes. 

My nerves, however, are good and strong, 
except at least in love matters, wherein 
they always fail me, and when I meet with 
witches ; aud therefore I went up to Annie, 
although she looked so white and pure ; for 
I had seen her before with those things on, 
and it struck me who she was. 

“ What are you doing here, Annie ?” I in- 
quired rather sternly, being vexed with her 
for having gone so very near to frighten me. 

“Nothing at all,” said our Annie, shortly. 
And indeed it was truth enough for a wom- 
an. Not that I dare to believe that women 
are such liars as men say ; only that I mean 
they often see things round the corner, and 
know not which is which of it. And iudeed 
I never have known a woman (though right 
enough in their meaning) purely and per- 
fectly true and transparent, except only my 
Lorna ; and even so, I might not have loved 
her, if she had been ugly. 

“ Why, how so ?” said I ; “ Miss Annie, 
what business have you here, doing nothing 
at this time of night ? And leaving me with 
all the trouble to entertain our guests !” 

“You seem not to me to be doing it, 
John,” Annie answered, softly ; “ what bus- 
iness have you here doing nothing at this 
time of night ?” 

I was taken so aback with this, and the 
extreme impertinence of it, from a mere 
young girl like Annie, that I turned round 
to march away and have nothing more to 
say to her. But she jumped up and caught 
me by the hand, and threw herself upon my 
bosom, with her face all wet with tears. 

“ Oh John, I will tell you — I will tell you. 
Only don’t be angry, John.” 


102 


LORNA DOONE. 


“Angry ! no indeed/’ said I ; “what right 
have I to he angry with you because you 
have your secrets? Every chit of a girl 
thinks now that she a right to her secrets.” 

“And you have none of your own, John ; 
of course you have none of your own ? All 
your -going out at night — ” 

“We will not quarrel here, poor Annie,” 
I answered, with some loftiness ; “ there are 
many things upon my mind which girls can 
have no notion of.” 

“And so there are upon mine, John. Oh 
John, I will tell you every thing, if you will 
look at me kindly, and promise to forgive 
me. Oh, I am so miserable !” 

Now this, though she was behaving so 
badly, moved me much toward her, espe- 
cially as I longed to know what she had to 
tell me. Therefore I allowed her to coax 
me, and to kiss me, and to lead me away a 
little as far as the old yew-tree; for she 
would not tell me where she was. 

But even in the shadow there she was 
very long before beginning, and seemed to 
have two minds about it, or rather perhaps 
a dozen ; and she laid her cheek against the 
tree, and sobbed till it was pitiful ; and I 
knew what mother would say to her, for 
spoiling her best frock so. 

“ Now will you stop ?” I said at last, hard- 
er than I meant it ; for I knew that she 
would go on all night, if any one encouraged 
her : and though not well acquainted with 
women, I understood my sisters ; or else I 
must be a born fool — except of course that 
I never professed to understand Eliza. 

“ Yes, I will stop,” said Annie, panting ; 
“you are very hard on me, John; but I 
know you mean it for the best. If some- 
body else — I am sure I don’t know who, and 
have no right to know, no doubt, but she 
must be a wicked thing — if somebody else 
had been taken so with a pain all round the 
heart, John, and no power of telling it, per- 
haps you would have coaxed and kissed her, 
and come a little nearer, and made oppor- 
tunity to be very loving.” 

Now this was so exactly what I had tried 
to do to Lorn a, that my breath was almost 
taken away at Annie’s so describing it. For 
a while I could not say a word, but wondered 
if she were a witch, which had never been in 
our family : and then, all of a sudden, I saw 
the way to beat her, with the devil at my 
elbow. 

“ From your knowledge of these things, 
Annie, you must have had them done to you. 
I demand to know this very moment who 
has taken such liberties.” 

“ Then, John, you shall never know, if 
you ask in that manner. Besides, it was no 
liberty in the least at all. Cousins have a 
right to do things — and when they are one’s 
godfather — ” Here Annie stopped quite 
suddenly, having so betrayed herself, but 
met me in the full moonlight, being re- 

0 7 O 


solved to face it out, with a good face put 
upon it. 

“Alas, I feared it would come to this,” I 
answered very sadly; “I know he has been 
here many a time, without showing himself 
to me. There is nothing meaner than for a r 
man to sneak, and steal a young maid’s heart, 
without her people knowing it.” 

“You are not doing any thing of that 
sort yourself, then, dear John, are you ?” 

“ Only a common highwayman !” I an- 
swered, without heeding her ; “ a man with- 
out an acre of his own, and liable to hang 
upon any common, and no other right of 
common over it — ” 

“John,” said my sister, “are the Doones 
privileged not to be hanged upon common 
land ?” 

At this I was so thunderstruck that I 
leaped in the air like a shot rabbit, and rush- 
ed as hard as I could through the gate and 
across the yard, and back into the kitchen ; 
and there I asked Farmer Nicholas Snowe 
to give me some tobacco, and to lend me a 
spare pipe. 

This he did with a grateful manner, being 
now some five-fourths gone ; and so I smoked 
the very first pipe that ever had entered my 
lips till then ; and beyond a doubt it did 
me good, and spread my heart at leisure. 

Meanwhile the reapers were mostly gone, 
to be up betimes in the morning ; and some 
were led by their wives ; and some had to 
lead their wives themselves; according to 
the capacity of man and wife respectively. 
But Betty was as lively as ever, bustling 
about with every one, and looking out for 
the chance of groats, which the better off 
might be free with. And over the knead- 
ing-pan next day she dropped three-and-six- 
pence out of her pocket ; and Lizzie could 
not tell for her life how much more might 
have been in it. 

Now by the time I had almost finished 
smoking that pipe of tobacco, and wonder- 
ing at myself for having so despised it hith- 
erto, and making up my mind to have anoth- 
er trial to-morrow night, it began to occur 
to me that although dear Annie had behaved 
so very badly and rudely, and almost taken 
my breath away with the suddenness of her 
allusion, yet it was not kind of me to leave 
her out there at that time of night all alone, 
and in such distress. Any of the reapers 
going home might be gotteh so far beyond 
fear of ghosts as to venture into the church- 
yard ; and although they would know a 
great deal better than to insult a sister of 
mine when sober, there was no telling what 
they might do in their present state of re- 
joicing. Moreover, it was only right that 
I should learn, for Lorna’s sake, how far 
Annie or any one else had penetrated our 
secret. 

Therefore I went forth at once, bearing 
my pipe in a skillful manner, as I had seen 


LORNA DOONE. 


103 


Farmer Nicholas do; and marking, with a 
new kind of pleasure, how the rings and 
wreaths of smoke hovored and fluttered in 
the moonlight, like a lark upon his carol. 
Poor Annie was gone back again to our fa- 
ther’s grave; and there she sat upon the 
turf, sobbing very gently, and not wishing 
to trouble any one. So I raised her tender- 
ly, and made much of her, and consoled her, 
for I could not scold her there ; and perhaps 
after all she was not to be blamed so much 
as Tom Faggus himself was. Annie was 
very grateful to me, aud kissed me many 
times, and begged my pardon ever so often 
for her rudeness to me. And then, having 
gone so far with it, and finding me so com- 
plaisant, she must needs try to go a little 
farther, and to lead me away from her own 
affairs, and into mine concerning Lorna. 
But although it was clever enough of her, 
she was not deep enough for me there ; and 
I soon discovered that she knew nothing, not 
even the name of my darling; but only sus- 
pected from things she had seen and put to- 
gether like a woman. Upon this I brought 
her back again to Tom Faggus and his do- 
ings. 

“ My poor Annie, have you really prom- 
ised him to be his wife ?” 

“ Then after all you have no reason, John 
— no particular reason, I mean — for slight- 
ing poor Sally Snowe so ?” 

“ Without even asking mother or me ! 
Oh, Annie, it was wrong of you !” 

“ But, darling, you know that mother 
wishes you so much to marry Sally; and I 
am sure you could have her to-morrow. She 
dotes on the very ground — ” 

“ I dare say he tells you that, Annie, that 
he dotes on the ground you walk upon — but 
did you believe him, child ?” 

“ You may believe me, I assure you, John ; 
and half the farm to be settled upon her af- 
ter the old man’s time ; and though she gives 
herself little airs, it is only done to entice 
you ; she has- the very best hand in the 
dairy, John, aud the lightest at a turn-over 
cake — ” 

“ Now, Annie, don’t talk nonsense so. I 
wish just to know the truth about you and 
Tom Faggus. Do you mean to marry him ?” 

“ I to marry before my brother, and leave 
him with none to take care of him ! Who 
can do him a red deer collop, except Sally 
herself, as I can ? Come home, dear, at once, 
and I will do you one ; for you never ate a 
morsel of supper, with all the people you had 
to attend upon.” 

This was true enough; and seeing no 
chance of any thing more than cross ques- 
tions and crooked purposes, at which a girl 
was sure to beat me, I even allowed her to 
lead me home, with the thoughts of the col- 
lop uppermost. But I never counted upon 
being beaten so thoroughly as I was; for 
knowing me now to be off my guard, the 


young hussy stopped at the farm-yard gate, 
as if with a brier entangling her ; and while 
I was stooping to take it away, she looked 
me full in the face by the moonlight, and 
jerked out quite suddenly, 

“ Can your love do a collop, John ?” 

11 No, I should hope not,” I answered, rash- 
ly; “she is not a mere cook-maid, I should 
hope.” 

u She is not half so pretty as Sally Snowe ; 
I will answer for that,” said Annie. 

“ She is ten thousand times as pretty as 
ten thousand Sally Snowes,” I replied, with 
great indignation. 

“ Oh, but look at Sally’s eyes !” cried my 
sister, rapturously. 

“Look at Lorna Doone’s,” said I; “and 
you would never look again at Sally’s.” 

“ Oh, Lorna Doone, Lorna Doone !” ex- 
claimed our Annie, half-frightened, yet clap- 
ping her hands with triumph at having found 
me out so : “ Lorna Doone is the lovely maid- 
en who has stolen poor somebody’s heart so. 
Ah, I shall remember it, because it is so queer 
a name. But stop, I had better write it down. 
Lend me your hat, poor boy, to write on.” 

“ I have a great mind to lend you a box 
on the ear,” I answered her, in my vexation ; 
“ and I would, if you had not been crying so, 
you sly good-for-nothing baggage. As it is, 
I shall keep it for Master Faggus, and add 
interest for keeping.” 

“ Oh no, John ; oh no, John,” she begged 
me earnestly, being sobered in a moment. 
“ Your hand is so terribly heavy, John ; and 
he never would forgive you ; although he is 
so good-hearted, he can not put up with an 
insult. Promise me, dear John, that you 
will not strike him, and I will promise you 
faithfully to keep your secret even from 
mother, and even from Cousin Tom himself.” 

“And from Lizzie; most of all, from Liz- 
zie,” I answered very eagerly, knowing too 
well which one of my family would be hard- 
est with me. 

“ Of course from little Lizzie,” said Annie, 
with some contempt ; “ a young thing like 
her can not be kept too long, in my opinion, 
from the knowledge of such subjects. And 
besides, I should be very sorry if Lizzie had 
the right to know your secrets as I have, 
dearest John. Not a soul shall be the wiser 
for your having trusted me, John ; although 
I shall be very wretched when you are late 
away at night among those dreadful peo- 
ple.” 

“ Well,” I replied, “ it is no use crying 
over spilled milk, Annie. You have my se- 
cret, and I have yours ; and I scarcely know 
which of the two is likely to have the worst 
time of it when it comes to mother’s ears. 
I could put up with perpetual scolding, but 
not with mother’s sad silence.” 

“That is exactly how I feel, John ;” and 
as Annie said it she brightened up, and her 
soft eyes shone upon me; “but now I shall 


104 


LORNA DOONE. 


be much happier, dear, because I shall try 
to help you. No doubt the youug lady de- 
serves it, John. She is not after the farm, 
I hope ?” 

“ She !” I exclaimed ; and that was enough ; 
there was so much scorn in my voice and 
face. 

“ Then, I am sure, I am very glad;” Annie 
always made the best of things ; “ for I do 
believe that Sally Snowe has taken a fan- 
cy to our dairy-place, and the pattern of our 
cream-pans; and she asked so much about 
our meadows, and the color of the milk — ” 

“ Then, after all, you were right, dear An- 
nie ; it is the ground she dotes upon !” 

“And the things that walk upon it,” she 
answered, with another kiss ; “ Sally has 
taken a wonderful fancy to our best cow, 
‘Nipple pins/ But she never shall have 
her now ; what a consolation !” 

We entered the house quite gently thus, 
and found farmer Nicholas Snowe asleep, 
little dreaming how his plans had been over- 
set between us. And then Annie said to me 
very slyly, between a smile and a blush, 

“ Don’t you wish Lorna Doone was here, 
John, in the parlor along with mother, in- 
stead of those two fashionable milkmaids, 
as Uncle Ben will call them, and poor stupid 
Mistress Kebby ?” 

“ That indeed I do, Annie. I must kiss 
you for only thinking of it. Dear me, it 
seems as if you had known all about us for 
a twelvemonth.” 

“ She loves you with all her heart, John. 
No doubt about that, of course.” And An- 
nie looked up at me, as much as to say she 
would like to know who could help it. 

“ That’s the very thing she won’t do,” said 
I, knowing that Annie would love me all the 
more for it ; “ she is only beginning to like 
me, Annie ; and as for loving, she is so young 
that she only loves her grandfather. But I 
hope she will come to it by-and-by.” 

“ Of course she must,” replied my sister ; 
“ it will be impossible for her to help it.” 

“Ah well! I don’t know,” for I wanted 
more assurance of it. “Maidens are such 
wondrous things !” 

“Not a bit of it,” said Annie, casting her 
bright eyes downward: “love is as simple 
as milking when people know how to do it. 
But you must not let her alone too long ; 
that is my advice to you. What a simple- 
ton you must have been not to tell me long 
ago. I would have made Lorna wild about 
you long before this time, Johnny. But now 
you go into the parlor, dear, while I do your 
collop. Faith Snowe is not come, but Polly 
and Sally. Sally has made up her mind to 
conquer you this very blessed evening, John. 
Only look what a thing of a scarf she has 
on ; I should be quite ashamed to wear it. 
But you won’t strike poor Tom, will you ?” 

“Not I, my darling, for your sweet sake.” 

And so dear Annie, having grown quite 


brave, gave me a little push into the parlor,, 
where I was quite abashed to enter, after all 
I had heard about Sally. And I made up 
my mind to examine her well, and try a lit- 
tle courting with her, if she should lead me 
on, that I might be in practice for Lorna. 
But when I perceived how grandly and rich- 
ly both the young damsels were appareled ; 
and how, in their courtesies to me, they re- 
treated, as if I were making up to them, in 
a way they had learned from Exeter ; and 
how they began to talk of the Court, as if 
they had been there all their lives, and the 
latest mode of the Duchess of this, and the 
profile of the Countess of that, and the last 
good saying of my Lord something ; instead 
of butter, and cream, and eggs, and things 
which they understood ; I knew there must 
be somebody in the room besides J asper Keb- 
by to talk at. 

And so there was ; for behind the curtain 
drawn across the window-seat no less a man 
than Uncle Ben was sitting half asleep and 
weary ; and by his side a little girl, very 
quiet and very watchful. My mother led 
me to Uncle Ben, and he took my hand 
without rising, muttering something not 
over -polite about my being bigger than 
ever. I asked him heartily how he was, 
and he said, “Well enough, for that matter ; 
but none the better for the noise you great 
clods have been making.” 

“I am sorry if we have disturbed you, 
sir,” I answered, very civilly; “but I knew 
not that you were here even ; and you must 
allow for harvest-time.” 

“ So it seems,” he replied ; “ and allow a 
great deal, including waste and drunken- 
ness. Now (if you can see so small a thing, 
after emptying flagons much larger) this is 
my granddaughter, and my heiress” — here 
he glanced at mother — “my heiress, little 
Ruth Huckaback.” 

“I am very glad to see you, Ruth,” I 
answered, offering her my hand, which she 
seemed afraid to take ; “ welcome to Plover’s 
Barrows, my good cousin Ruth.” 

However, my good cousin Ruth only arose, 
and made me a courtesy, and lifted her great 
brown eyes at me, more in fear, as I thought, 
than kinship. And if ever any one looked 
unlike the heiress to great property, it was 
the little girl before me. 

“ Come out to the kitchen, dear, and let 
me chuck, you to the ceiling,” I said, just 
to encourage her ; “ I always do it to little 
girls ; and then they can see the hams and 
bacon.” But Uncle Reuben burst out laugh- 
ing, and Ruth turned away with a deep rich 
color. 

- “ Do you know how old she is, you num- 
skull ?” said Uncle Ben, in his dryest drawl ; 
“she was seventeen last July, sir.” 

“On the first of July, grandfather,” Ruth 
whispered, with her back still to me ; “ but 
many people will not believe it.” 


LORNA DOONE. 


105 


Here mother came up to my rescue, as 
she always loved to do ; and she said, “ If 
my son may not dance Miss Ruth, at any 
rate he may dance with her. We have only 
been waiting for you, dear Johu, to have a 
little harvest dance, with the kitchen door 
thrown open. You take Ruth; Uncle Ben, 
take Sally ; Master Kebby, pair off with 
Polly ; and neighbor Nicholas will be good 
enough, if I can awake him, to stand up 
with fair Mistress Kebby. Lizzie will play 
us the virginal. Won’t you, Lizzie dear?” 

“But who is to dance with you, madam?” 
Uncle Ben asked, very politely. “ I think 
you must re-arrange your figure. I have 
not danced for a score of years ; and I will 
not dance now, while the mistress and the 
owner of the harvest sits aside neglected.” 

“ Nay, Master Huckaback,” cried Sally 
Snowe, with a saucy toss of her hair, “ Mis- 
tress Ridd is too kind, a great deal, in hand- 
ing you over to me. You take her ; and I 
will fetch Annie to be my partner this even- 
ing. I like dancing very much better with 
girls, for they never squeeze and rumple one. 
Oh it is so much nicer !” 

“ Have no fear for me, my dears,” our 
mother answered, smiling ; “ Parson Bow- 
den promised to come back again ; I expect 
him every minute ; aud he intends to lead 
me off, and to bring a partner for Annie too 
— a very pretty young gentleman. Now be- 
gin, and I will join you.” 

There was no disobeying her without rude- 
ness ; and indeed the girls’ feet were already 
jigging, and Lizzie giving herself wonderful 
airs with a roll of learned music ; aud even 
while Annie was doing my collop, her pret- 
ty round instep was arching itself, as I could 
see from the parlor door. So I took little 
Ruth, and I spun her around, as the sound 
of the music came lively and ringing ; and 
after us came all the rest with much laugh- 
ter, begging me not to jump over her; and 
anon my grave partner began to smile sweet- 
ly, and look up at me with the brightest of 
eyes, and drop me the prettiest courtesies ; 
till I thought what a great stupe I must 
have been to dream of putting her in the 
cheese-rack. But one thing I could not at 
all understand ; why mother, who used to 
do all in her power to throw me across Sal- 
ly Snowe, should now do the very opposite ; 
for she would not allow me one moment 
with Sally, not even to cross in the dance, 
or whisper, or go anywhere near a corner 
(which, as I said, I intended to do, just by 
way of practice) ; while she kept me all 
the evening as close as possible with Ruth 
Huckaback, and came up and praised me 
so to Ruth, times aud again, that I declare I 
was quite ashamed. Although, of course, I 
knew that I deserved it all, but I could not 
well say that. 

Then Annie came sailing down the dance, 
with her beautiful hair flowing round her ; 


the lightest figure in all the room, and the 
sweetest and the loveliest. She was blush- 
ing, with her fair cheeks red beneath her 
dear blue eyes, as she met my glance of sur- 
prise and grief at the partner she was lean- 
ing on. It was Squire Marwood de Whiche- 
halse. I would sooner have seen her with 
Tom Faggus, as indeed I had expected, when 
I heard of Parson Bowden. And to me it 
seemed that she had no right to be dancing 
so with any other ; and to this effect I con- 
trived to whisper ; but she only said, “ See 
to yourself, Johu. No, but let us both en- 
joy ourselves. You are not dancing with 
Lorna, John. But you seem uncommonly 
happy.” 

“ Tush,” I said ; “ could I flip about so if 
I had my love with me ?” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

JOHN FRY’S ERRAND. 

We kept up the dance very late that 
night, mother being in such wonderful spir- 
its that she would not hear of our going te 
bed : while she glanced from young Squire 
Marwood, very deep in his talk with our 
Annie, to me and Ruth Huckaback who 
were beginning to be very pleasant com- 
pany. Alas, poor mother, so proud as she 
was, how little she dreamed that her good 
schemes already were hopelessly going awry ! 

Being forced to be up before daylight next 
day, in order to begin right early, I would 
not go to my bedroom that night for fear 
of disturbing my mother, but determined to 
sleep in the tallat a while, that place being 
cool and airy, and refreshing with the smell 
of sweet hay. Moreover, after my dwelling 
in town, where I had felt like a horse on a 
lime-kiln, I could not for a length of time 
have enough of country life. The mooing 
of a calf was music, and the chuckle of a 
fowl was wit, and the snore of the horses 
was news to me. 

“ Wult have thee own wai, I rackon,” said 
Betty, being cross with sleepiness, for she 
had washed up every thing; “slape in hog- 
pound, if thee Jaikes, Jan.” 

Letting her have the last word of it (as is 
the due of women), I stood in the court, and 
wondered a while at the glory of the har- 
vest-moon, and the yellow world it shone 
upon. Then I saw, as sure as ever I was 
standing there in the shadow of the stable, 
I saw a short wide figure glide across the 
foot of the court-yard, between me and the 
six-barred gate. Instead of running after 
it, as I should have done, I began to consider 
who it could be, and what on earth was do- 
ing there, when all our people were in bed, 
and the reapers gone home, or to the linhay 
close against the wheat-field. 

Having made up my mind at last that it 


106 


LORNA DOONE. 


could be none of our people — though not a 
dog was barking — and also that it must 
have been either a girl or a woman, I ran 
•down with all speed to learn what might be 
the meaning of it. But I came too late to 
learn, through my own hesitation ; for this 
was the lower end of the court-yard, not the 
approach from the parish highway, but the 
end of the sledd-way across the fields where 
the brook goes down to the Lynn stream, 
and where Squire Faggus had saved the old 
drake. And of course the dry channel of 
the brook, being scarcely any water now, 
afforded plenty of place to hide, leading also 
to a little coppice beyond our cabbage-gar- 
den, and so farther on to the parish highway. 

I saw at once that it was vain to make 
any pursuit by moonlight ; and resolving to 
hold my own counsel about it (though puz- 
zled not a little) and to keep watch there 
another night, back I returned to the tallat- 
ladder, and slept without leaving off till 
morning. 

Now many people may wish to know, as 
indeed X myself did very greatly, what had 
brought Master Huckaback over from Dul- 
verton at that time of year, when the cloth- 
ing business was most active on account of 
harvest wages, and when the new wheat 
was beginning to sample from the early 
parts up the country (for he meddled as well 
in corn - dealing), and when we could not 
attend to him properly by reason of our oc- 
cupation. And yet more surprising it seem- 
ed to me that he should have brought his 
granddaughter also, instead of the troop of 
dragoons, without which he had vowed he 
would never come here again. And how he 
had managed to enter the house, together 
with his granddaughter, and be sitting quite 
at home in the parlor there, without any 
knowledge or even suspicion on my part. 
That last question was easily solved, for 
mother herself had admitted them by means 
of the little passage during a chorus of the 
harvest-song, which might have drowned an 
earthquake : but as for his meaning and mo- 
tive, and apparent neglect of his business, 
none but himself could interpret them ; and 
as he did not see fit to do so, we could not 
be rude enough to inquire. 

He seemed in no hurry to take his depart- 
ure, though his visit was so incouvenient to 
us, as himself, indeed, must have noticed : 
and presently Lizzie, who was the sharpest 
among us, said in my hearing that she be- 
lieved he had purposely timed his visit so 
that he might have liberty to pursue his 
own object, whatsoever it were, without in- 
terruption from us. Mother gazed hard upon 
Lizzie at this, haviug formed a very differ- 
ent opinion; but Annie and myself agreed 
that it was worth looking into. 

Now how could we look into it, without 
watching Uncle Reuben whenever he went 
.abroad, and trying to catch him in his 


speech, when he was taking his ease at 
night ? For, in spite of all the disgust with 
which he had spoken of harvest wassailing, 
there was not a man coming into our kitch- 
en who liked it better than he did ; only in 
a quiet way, and without too many witness- 
es. Now to endeavor to get at the purpose 
of any guest, even a treacherous one (which 
we had no right to think Uncle Reuben), by 
means of observing him in his cups, is a 
thing which even the lowest of people would 
regard with abhorrence. And to my mind 
it was not clear whether it would be fair- 
play at all to follow a visitor even at a dis- 
tance from home and clear of our premises ; 
except for the purpose of fetching him back, 
and giving him more to go on with. Nev- 
ertheless we could not but think, the times 
being wild and disjointed, that Uncle Ben 
was not using fairly the part of a guest in 
our house, to make long expeditions we 
knew not whither, and involve us iu trouble 
we knew not what. 

For his mode was directly after breakfast 
to pray to the Lord a little (which used not 
to be his practice), and then to go forth 
upon Holly, the which was our Annie’s pony, 
very quiet and respectful, with a bag of 
good victuals hung behind him, and two 
great cavalry pistols in front. And he al- 
ways wore his meanest clothes, as if expect- 
ing to be robbed, or to disarm the tempta- 
tion thereto ; and he never took his golden 
chronometer, neither his bag of money. So 
much the girls found out and told me (for I 
was never at home myself by day) ; and they 
very craftily spurred me on, having less no- 
ble ideas, perhaps, to hit upon Uncle Reu- 
ben’s track, and follow, and see what be- 
came of him. For he never returned until 
dark or more, just iu time to be in before 
us, who were coming home from the harvest. 
And then Dolly always seemed very weary, 
and stained with a muck from beyond our 
parish. 

But I refused to follow him, not only for 
the loss of a day’s work to myself, and at 
least half a day to the other men, but chiefly 
because I could not think that it would be 
upright and manly. It was all very well to 
creep warily into the valley of the Doones, 
and heed every thing around me, both be- 
cause they were public enemies, and also be- 
cause I risked my life at every step I took 
there. But as to tracking a feeble old man 
(however subtle he might be), a guest, more- 
over, of our own, and a relative through my 
mother — “ Once for all,” I said, “ it is below 
me, and I won’t do it.” 

Thereupon the girls, knowing my way, 
ceased to torment me about it: but what 
was my astonishment the very next day to 
perceive that instead of fourteen reapers, we 
were only thirteen left, directly our breakfast 
was done with — or mowers, rather, I should 
say, for we were gone into the barley now. 


LORNA DOONE. 


107 


“Who has been and left his scythe ?” I 
asked ; “ and here’s a tin cup never han- 
dled !” 

“Whoy, dudn’t ee knaw, Maister Jan,” 
said Bill Dadds, looking at me queerly, “ as 
Jan Vry wur gane avore braxvass.” 

“ Oh, very well,” I answered, “John knows 
what he is doing.” For John Fry was a 
kind of foreman now, and it would not do to 
say any thing that might lessen his author- 
ity. However, I made up my mind to rope 
him, when I should catch him by himself, 
without peril to his dignity. 

But when I came home in the evening, 
late and almost weary, there was no Annie 
cooking my supper, nor Lizzie by the fire 
reading, nor even little Ruth Huckaback 
watching the shadows and pondering. Upon 
this I went to the girl’s room, not in the 
very best of tempers ; and there I found all 
three of them in the little place set apart 
for Annie, eagerly listening to John Fry, who 
was telling some great adventure. John 
had a great jug of ale beside him, and a horn 
well drained ; and he clearly looked upon 
himself as a hero, and the maids seemed to 
be of the same opinion. 

“ Well done, John,” my sister was saying, 
“ capitally done, J ohn Fry. How very brave 
you have been, John. Now quick, let us 
hear the rest of it.” 

“ What does all this nonsense mean ?” I 
said, in a voice which frightened them, as I 
could see by the light of our own mutton- 
candles : “ John Fry, you be off to your wife 
at once, or you shall have what I owe you 
now, instead of to-morrow morning.” 

John made no answer, but scratched his 
head, and looked at the maidens to take his 
part. 

“ It is you that must be off, I think,” said 
Lizzie, looking straight at me with all the 
inqmdence in the world : “ what right have 
you to come in here to the young ladies’ 
room, without an invitation even ?” 

“ Very well, Miss Lizzie, I suppose mother 
has some right here.” And with that I was 
going away to fetch her, knowing that she 
always took my side, and never would al- 
low the house to be turned upside down in 
that manner. But Annie caught hold of me 
by the arm, and little Ruth stood in the 
door-way ; and Lizzie said, “ Don’t be a fool, 
John. We know things of you, you know ; 
a great deal more than you dream of.” 

Upon this I glanced at Annie, to learn 
whether she had been telling, but her pure, 
true face re -assured me at once, and then 
she said very gently, 

“ Lizzie, you talk too fast, my child. No 
one knows any thing of our John which he 
need be ashamed of; and working as he 
does from light to dusk, and earning the liv- 
ing of all of us, he is entitled to choose his 
own good time for going out and for coming 
in, without consulting a little girl five years 


younger than himself. Now, John, sit down, 
and you shall know all that we have done, 
though I doubt whether you will approve 
of it.” 

Upon this I kissed Annie, and so did Ruth; 
and John Fry looked a deal more comfort- 
able, but Lizzie only made a face at us. 
Then Annie began as follows : 

“You must know, dear John, that we 
have been extremely curious, ever since Un- 
cle Reuben came, to know what he was come 
for, especially at this time of year, when he 
is at his busiest. He never vouchsafed any 
explanation, neither gave any reason, true 
or false, which shows his entire ignorance of 
all feminine nature. If Ruth had known, 
and refused to tell us, we should have been 
much easier, because we must have got it 
out of Ruth before two or three days were 
over. But darling Ruth knew no more than 
we did; and indeed I must do her the jus- 
tice to say that she has been quite as in- 
quisitive. Well, we might have put up with 
it, if it had not been for his taking Dolly, 
my own pet Dolly, away every morning, 
quite as if she belonged to him, and keeping 
her out until close upon dark, and then bring- 
ing her home in a frightful condition. And 
he even had the impudence, when I told him 
I that Dolly was my pony, to say that we 
owed him a pony ever since you took from 
him that little horse upon which you found 
him strapped so snugly ; and he means to 
take Dolly to Dulverton with him, to run in 
his little cart. If there is law in the land, 
he shall not. Surely, John, you will not 
let him ?” 

“ That I won’t,” said I, “ except upon the 
conditions which I offered him once before. 
If we owe him the pony, we owe him the 
straps.” 

Sweet Annie laughed like a bell at this, 
and then she went on with her story. 

“ Well, John, we were perfectly miserable. 
You can not understand it, of course; but I 
used to go every evening and hug poor Dol- 
ly, and kiss her, and beg her to tell me where 
she had been, and what she had seen that 
day. But never having belonged to Balaam, 
darling Dolly was quite unsuccessful, though 
often she strove to tell me, with her ears 
down, and both eyes rolling. Then I made 
John Fry tie her tail in a knot with a piece 
of Avhite ribbon, as if for adornment, that I 
might trace her among the hills, at any rate 
for a mile or two. But Uncle Ben was too 
deep for that ; he cut off the ribbon before 
he started, saying he would have no Dooues 
after him. And then, in despair, I applied 
to you, knowing how quick of foot you are, 
and I got Ruth and Lizzie to help me, but 
you answered us very shortly; and a very 
poor supper you had that night, according 
to your deserts. 

“ But though we were dashed to the ground 
for a time, we were not wholly discomfited. 


108 


LORNA DOONE. 


Our determination to know all about it seem- 
ed to increase with the difficulty. And Un- 
cle Ben’s manner last night was so dry, when 
we tried to romp and to lead him out, that 
it was much worse than Jamaica ginger 
grated into a poor sprayed finger. So we 
sent him to bed at the earliest moment, and 
held a small council upon him. If you re- 
member, you, John, having now taken to 
smoke (which is a hateful practice), had gone 
forth grumbling about your bad supper, and 
not taking it as a good lesson.” 

“Why, Annie,” I cried, in amazement at 
this, “ I will never trust you again for a sup- 
per. I thought you were, so sorry.” 

“And so I was, dear — very sorry. But 
still, we must do our duty. And when we 
came to consider it, Ruth was the cleverest 
of us all ; for she said that surely we must 
have some man we could trust about the 
farm to go on a little errand; and then I re- 
membered that old John Fry would do any 
thing for money.” 

“Not for money, plaize, miss,” said John 
Fry, taking a pull at the beer ; “ but for the 
love of o’ your swate faice.” 

“ To be sure, John ; with the King’s behind 
it. And so Lizzie ran for John Fry at once, 
and we gave him full directions, how he was 
to slip out of the barley in the confusion of 
the breakfast, so that none might miss him, 
and to run back to the black combe bottom, 
and there he would find the very same pony 
which Uncle Ben had been tied upon, and 
there is no faster upon the farm. And then, 
without waiting for any breakfast, unless 
he could eat it either running or trotting, he 
was to travel all up the black combe by the 
track Uncle Reuben had taken, and up at 
the top to look forward carefully, and so to 
trace him without being seen.” 

“Ay; and raight wull a doo’d un,” John 
cried, with his mouth in the bullock’s horn. 

“Well, and what did you see, John?” I 
asked, with great anxiety ; though I meant 
to have shown no interest. 

“John was just at the very point of it,” 
Lizzie answered me sharply, “ when you 
chose to come in and stop him.” 

“Then let him begin again,” said I; 
“things being gone so far, it is now my duty 
to know every thing, for the sake of you 
girls and mother.” 

“ Hem!” cried Lizzie, in a nasty way ; but 
I took no notice of her, for she was always 
bad to deal with. Therefore John Fry be- 
gan again, being heartily glad to do so, that 
liis story might get out of the tumble which 
all our talk had made in it. But as he could 
not tell a tale in the manner of my Lorna 
(although he told it very well for those 
who understood him), I will take it from his 
mouth altogether, and state in brief what 
happened. 

When John, upon his forest pony, which 
he had much ado to hold (its mouth being 


like a bucket), was come to the top of the 
long black combe, two miles or more from 
Plover’s Barrows, and winding to the south- 
ward, he stopped his little nag short of the 
crest, and got off and looked ahead of him, 
from behind a tump of whortles. It was a 
long flat sweep of moor-land over which he 
was gazing, with a few bogs here and there, 
and brushy places round them. Of course, 
John Fry, from his shepherd life and reclaim- 
ing of strayed cattle, knew as well as need 
be where he was, and the spread of the hills 
before him, although it was beyond our beat, 
or, rather, I should say beside it. Not but 
what we might have grazed there had it been 
our pleasure, but that it was not worth our 
while, and scarcely worth Jasper Kebby’s 
even ; all the laud being cropped (as one 
might say) with desolation. And nearly all 
our knowledge of it sprang from the unac- 
countable tricks of cows who have young 
calves with them ; at which time they have 
wild desire to get away from the sight of 
man, and keep calf and milk for one anoth- 
er, although it be in a barren land. At least 
our cows have gotten this trick, and I have 
heard other people complain of it. 

John Fry, as I said, knew the place well 
enough, but he liked it none the more for 
that, neither did any of our people ; and, in- 
deed, all the neighborhood of Thornshill and 
Larksborough, and most of all Black Barrow 
Down, lay under grave imputation of having 
been enchanted with a very evil spell. More- 
over, it was known, though folk were loath to 
speak of it, even on a summer morning, that 
Squire Thom, who had been murdered there 
a century ago or more, had been seen by 
several shepherds, even in the middle day, 
walking with his severed head carried in his 
left hand, and his right arm lifted toward 
the sun. 

Therefore it was very bold in John (as I 
acknowledged) to venture across that moor 
alone, even with a fast pony under him, and 
some whisky by his side. And he would 
never have done so (of that I am quite cer- 
tain), either for the sake of Annie’s sweet 
face, or of the golden guinea, which the three 
maidens had subscribed to reward his skill 
aud valor. But the truth was that he could 
not resist his own great curiosity. For, 
carefully spying across the moor, from be- 
hind the tuft of whortles, at first he could 
discover nothing having life and motion, 
except three or four wild cattle roving in 
vain search for nourishment, and a diseased 
sheep banished hither, and some carrion 
crows keeping watch on her. But when 
John was taking his very last look, being 
only too glad to go home again, and ac- 
knowledge himself baffled, he thought he 
saw a figure moving in the farthest distance 
upon Black Barrow Down, scarcely a thing 
to be sure of yet, on account of the want of 
color. But as he watched, the figure passed 


LORNA DOONE. 


109 


between him and a naked cliff, and appear- 
ed to be a man on horseback, making his 
way very carefully, in fear of hogs and ser- 
jients. For all about there it is adders’ 
ground, and large black serpents dwell in 
the marshes, and can swim as well as crawl. 

John knew that the man who was riding 
there could he none but Uncle Reuben, for 
none of the Doones ever passed that way, 
and the shepherds were afraid of it. And 
now it seemed an unked place for an unarm- 
ed man to venture through, especially after 
an armed one who might not like to he spied 
upon, and must have some dark object in 
visiting such drear solitudes. Nevertheless 
John Fry so ached with unbearable curiosi- 
ty to know what an old man, and a stran- 
ger, and a rich man, and a peaceable, could 
possibly be after in that mysterious manner. 
Moreover, John so throbbed with hope to 
find some wealthy secret, that, come what 
would of it, he resolved to go to the end of 
the matter. 

Therefore he only waited a while for fear 
of being discovered, till Master Huckaback 
turned, to the left and entered a little gully, 
whence he could not survey the moor. Then 
John remounted and crossed the rough land 
and the stony places, and picked his way 
among the morasses as fast as ever he dared 
to go, until, in about half an hour, he drew 
nigh the entrance of the gully. And now it 
behooved him to be most wary; for Uncle 
Ben might have stopped in there, either to 
rest his horse or having reached the end of 
his journey. And in either case John had 
little doubt that he himself would be pis- 
toled, and nothing more ever heard of him. 
Therefore he made his pony come to the 
mouth of it sideways, and leaned over and 
peered in around the rocky corner, while the 
little horse cropped at the briers. 

But he soon perceived that the gully was 
empty, so far, at least, as its course was 
straight ; and with that he hastened into it, 
though his heart was not working easily. 
When he had traced the winding hollow for 
half a mile or more, he saw that it forked, 
and one part led to the left up a steep red 
bank, and the other to the right, being nar- 
row, and slightly tending downward. Some 
yellow sand lay here and there between the 
starving grasses, and this he examined nar- 
rowly for a trace of Master Huckaback. 

At last he saw that, beyond all doubt, the 
man he was pursuing had taken the course 
which led down hill ; and down the hill he 
must follow him. And this John did with 
deep misgivings, and a hearty wish that he 
had never started upon so perilous an er- 
rand. For now he knew not where he was, 
and scarcely dared to ask himself, having 
heard of a horrible hole, somewhere in this 
neighborhood, called the “Wizard’s Slough.” 
Therefore John rode down the slope with 
sorrow and great caution. And these grew 


more as he went onward, and his pony rear- 
ed against him, beiug scared, although a na- 
tive of the roughest moor-land. And John 
had just made up his mind that God meant 
this for a warning, as the passage seemed 
darker and deeper, when suddenly he turned 
a corner, and saw a scene which stopped 
him. 

For there was the Wizard’s Slough itself, 
as black as death, and bubbling, with a few 
scant yellow reeds in a ring around it. Out- 
side these, bright water-grass of the liveli- 
est green was creeping, tempting any un- 
wary foot to step, and plunge, and founder. 
And on the marge were blue campanula, 
sundew, and forget-me-not, such as no child 
could resist. On either side the hill fell 
back, and the ground was broken with tufts 
of rush, and flag, and mare’s-tail, and a few 
rough alder -trees overclogged with water. 
And not a bird was seen or heard, neither rail 
nor water-hen, wagtail nor reed- warbler. 

Of this horrible quagmire, the worst upon 
all Exmoor, John had heard from his grand- 
father, and even from his mother, when they 
wanted to keep him quiet ; but his father 
had feared to speak of it to him, being a man 
of piety, and up to the tricks of the evil one. 
This made John the more desirous to have 
a good look at it now, only with his girths 
well up, to turn away and flee at speed, if 
any thing should happen. And now he 
proved how well it is to be wary and wide- 
awake, even in lonesome places. For at the 
other side of the slough, and a few land- 
yards beyond it, where the ground was less 
noisome, he had observed a felled tree lying 
over a great hole in the earth, with staves 
of wood, and slabs of stone, and some yellow 
gravel around it. But the flags of reeds 
around the morass partly screened it from 
his eyes, and he could not make out the 
meaning of it, except that it meant no good, 
and probably was witchcraft. Yet Dolly 
seemed not to be harmed by it ; for there 
she was as large as life, tied to a stump not 
far beyond, and flipping the flies away with 
her tail. 

While John was trembling within him- 
self, lest Dolly should get scent of His pony, 
and neigh and reveal their presence, al- 
though she could not see them, suddenly, to 
his great amazement, something white arose 
out of the hole, under the brown trunk of 
the tree. Seeing this, his blood went back 
within him ; yet was he not able to turn and 
flee, but rooted his face in among the loose 
stones, and kept his quivering shoulders 
back, and prayed to God to protect him. 
However, the white thing itself was not so 
very awful, beiug nothing more than a long- 
coned night-cap, with a tassel on the top, 
such as criminals wear at hanging -time. 
But when John saw a man’s face under it, 
and a man’s neck and shoulders slowly ris- 
ing out of the pit, he could not doubt that 


110 


LORNA DOONE. 


this was the place where the murderers 
come to life again, according to the Exmoor 
story. He knew that a man had been hang- 
ed last week, and that this was the ninth 
day after it. 

Therefore he could bear no more, thor- 
oughly brave as he had been ; neither did 
he wait to see what became of the gallows- 
man, but climbed on his horse with what 
speed he might, and rode away at full gal- 
lop ; neither did he dare go back by the 
way he came, fearing to face Black Barrow 
Down! Therefore he struck up the other 
track leading away toward Cloven Rocks ; 
and after riding hard for an hour and drink- 
ing all his whisky, he luckily fell in with a 
shepherd, who led him on to a public-house 
somewhere near Exeford And here he was 
so unmanned, the excitement being over, 
that nothing less than a gallon of ale and 
half a gammon of bacon brought him to his 
right mind again. And he took good care 
to be home before dark, having followed a 
well-known sheep-track. 

When John Fry had finished his story at 
last, after many exclamations from Annie 
and from Lizzie, and much praise of his gal- 
lantry, yet some little disappointment that 
he had not staid there a little longer while 
he was about it, so as to be able to tell us 
more, I said to him very sternly, 

“ Now, John, you have dreamed half this, 
my man. I firmly believe that you fell 
asleep at the top of the black combe, after 
drinking all your whisky, and never went on 
the moor at all. You know what a liar you 
are, John.” 

The girls were exceedingly angry at this, 
and laid their hands before my mouth ; but 
I waited for John to answer, with my eyes 
fixed upon him steadfastly. 

“ Bain’t for me to denai,” said John, look- 
ing at me very honestly, “ but what a maight 
tull a lai, now and awhiles, zame as other 
men doth, and most of arl them as spaks 
again it ; but this here be no lai, Maister 
Jan. I wush to God it wor, boy : a maight 
slape this naigbt the better.” 

11 1 believe you speak the truth, John ; and 
I ask your pardon. Now not a word to any 
one about this strange affair. There is mis- 
chief brewing, I can see, and it is my place 
to attend to it. Several things come across 
me now — only I will not tell you.” 

They were not at all contented with this ; 
but I would give them no better, except to 
say, when they plagued me greatly, and vow- 
ed to sleep at my door all night, 

“Now, my dears, this is foolish of you. 
Too much of this matter is known already. 
It is for your own dear sakes that I am 
bound to be cautious. I have an opinion of 
my own, but it may be a very wrong one ; I 
will not ask you to share it with me, nei- 
ther will I make you inquisitive.” 

Annie pouted, and Lizzie frowned, and 


Ruth looked at me with her eyes wide open,, 
but no other mark of regarding me. And I 
saw that if any one of the three (for John 
Fry was gone home with the trembles) could 
be trusted to keep a secret, that one was 
Ruth Huckaback. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

FEEDING OF THE PIGS. 

The story told by John Fry that night, 
and my conviction of its truth, made me 
very uneasy, especially as following upon 
the warning of Judge Jeffreys, and the 
hints received from Jeremy Stickles, and 
the outburst of the tanner at Dunster, as 
well as sundry tales and rumors, and signs 
of secret understanding, seen and heard on 
market-days, and at places of entertain- 
ment. We knew for certain that at Taun- 
ton, Bridgwater, and even Dulverton, there 
was much disaffection toward the King, and 
regret for the days of the Puritans. Albeit 
I had told the truth, and the pure and sim- 
ple truth, when, upon my examination, I had 
assured his lordshfp that, to the best of my 
knowledge, there was nothing of the sort 
with us. 

But now I was beginning to doubt wheth- 
er I might not have been mistaken; espe- 
cially when we heard, as we did, of arms be- 
ing landed at Lynmouth in the dead of the 
night, and of the tramp of men having reach- 
ed some one’s ears from a hill where a fa- 
mous echo was. For it must be plain to 
any conspirator (without the example of the 
Doones) that for the secret muster of men, 
and the stowing of unlawful arms, and com- 
munication by beacon lights, scarcely a fit- 
ter place could be found than the wilds of 
Exmoor, with deep ravines running far in- 
land from an unwatched and mostly a shel- 
tered sea. For the channel from Countis- 
bury Foreland up to Minehead, or even far- 
ther, though rocky, and gusty, and full of 
currents, is safe from great rollers and the 
sweeping power of the south-west storms, 
which prevail with us more than all the 
others, and make sad work on the opposite 
coast. 

But even supposing it probable that some- 
thing against King Charles the Second (or 
rather against his Roman advisers, and es- 
pecially his brother) were now in prepara- 
tion among us, was it likely that Master 
Huckaback, a wealthy man, and a careful 
one, known moreover to the Lord Chief-jus- 
tice, would have any thing to do with it ? 
To this I could make no answer ; Uncle Ben 
was so close a man, so avaricious, and so re- 
vengeful, that it was quite impossible to say 
what course he might pursue, without know- 
ing all the chances of gain, or rise, or satis- 
faction to him. That lie hated the Papists, 


LORNA DOONE. 


Ill 


I knew full well, though he never spoke 
much about them ; also that he had follow- 
ed the march of Oliver Cromwell’s army, 
but more as a sutler (people said) than as 
a real soldier ; and that he would go a long 
way, and risk a great deal of money, to have 
his revenge on the Doones ; although their 
name never passed his lips during the pres- 
ent visit. 

But how was it likely to be as to the 
Doones themselves? Which side would 
they probably take in the coming move- 
ment, if movement indeed it would be ? So 
far as they had any religion at all, by birth 
they were Roman Catholics — so much I 
knew from Lorna ; and indeed it was well 
known all around, that a priest had been 
fetched more than once to the valley to 
soothe some poor outlaw’s departure. On 
the other hand, they were not likely to en- 
tertain much affection for the son of the 
man who had banished them and confisca- 
ted their property. And it was not at all 
impossible that desperate men, such as they 
were, having nothing to lose, but estates to 
recover, and not beiug held by religion much, 
should cast away all regard for the birth 
from which they had been cast out, and 
make common cause with a Protestant ris- 
ing for the chance of revenge and replace- 
ment. 

However, I do not mean to say that all 
these things occurred to me as clearly as I 
have set them down ; only that I was in 
general doubt, and very sad perplexity. For 
mother was so warm, and innocent, and so 
kind to every one, that knowing some little 
by this time of the English constitution, I 
feared very greatly lest she should be pun- 
ished for harboring malcontents. As well 
as possible I knew, that if any poor man 
came to our door, and cried, “ Officers are 
after me ; for God’s sake take and hide me,” 
mother would take him in at once, and con- 
ceal and feed him, even though he had been 
very violent : and, to tell the truth, so would 
both my sisters, and so indeed would I do. 
Whence it will be clear that we were not 
the sort of people to be safe among disturb- 
ances. 

Before I could quite make up my mind how 
to act in this difficulty, and how to get at 
the rights of it (for I would not spy after Un- 
cle Reuben, though I felt no great fear of the 
Wizard’s Slough, and none of the man with 
white night-cap), a difference came again 
upon it, and a change of chances. For Un- 
cle Ben went away as suddenly as he first 
had come to us, giving no reason for his de- 
parture, neither claiming the pony, and in- 
deed leaving something behind him of great 
value to my mother. For he begged her 
to see to his young granddaughter until he 
could find opportunity of fetching her safe- 
ly to Dulverton. Mother was overjoyed at 
this, as she could not help displaying; and 


Ruth was quite as much delighted, although 
she durst not show it. For at Dulverton she 
had to watch and keep such ward on the 
victuals, and the in and out of the shopmen,, 
that it went entirely against her heart, and 
she never could enjoy herself. Truly she 
was an altered girl from the day she came 
to us ; catching our unsuspicious manners,, 
and our free good-will and hearty noise of 
laughing. 

By this time, the harvest being done, and 
the thatching of the ricks made sure against 
south-western tempests, and all the reapers 
being gone, with good money and thankful- 
ness, I began to burn in spirit for the sight 
of Lorna. I had begged my sister Annie to 
let Sally Snowe know, once for all, that it 
was not in my power to have any thing 
more to do with her. Of course our Annie 
was not to grieve Salty, neither to let it ap- 
pear for a moment that I suspected her kind 
views upon me, and her strong regard for our 
dairy : only I thought it right upon our part 
not to waste Sally’s time any longer, being 
a handsome wench as she was, and many 
young fellows glad to marry her. 

And Annie did this uncommonly well, as 
she herself told me afterward, having taken 
Salty in the sweetest manner into her pure 
confidence, and opened half her bosom to her 
about my very sad love-affair. Not that she 
let Salty know, of course, who it was, or what 
it was ; only that she made her understand, 
without hinting at any desire of it, that there 
was no chance now of having me. Salty 
changed color a little at this, and then went 
on about a red cow which had passed seven 
needles at milking-time. 

Inasmuch as there are two sorts of month 
well recognized by the calendar, to wit, the 
lunar and the solar, I made bold to regard 
both my months, in the absence of any 
provision, as intended to be strictly lunar. 
Therefore, upon the very day when the 
eight weeks were expiring, forth I went in 
search of Lorna, taking the pearl ring hope- 
fully, and all the new-laid eggs I could find, 
and a dozen and a half of small trout from 
our brook. And the pleasure it gave me 
to catch those trout, thinking, as every one 
came forth and danced upon the grass, how 
much she would enjoy him, is more than I 
can now describe, although I well remem- 
ber it. And it struck me that after accept- 
ing my ring, and saying how much she loved 
me, it was possible that my Queen might in- 
vite me even to stay and sup with her : and 
so I arranged with dear Annie beforehand, 
who now was the greatest comfort to me, 
to account for my absence if I should be 
late. 

But alas, I was utterly disappointed ; for 
although I waited and waited for hours,, 
with an equal amount both of patience and 
peril, no Lorna ever appeared at all, nor 
even the faintest sign of her. And auoth- 


112 


LOKNA DOONE. 


or thing occurred as well, which vexed me 
more than it need have done, for so small a 
matter. And this was that my little offer- 
ing of the trout and the new-laid eggs was 
carried off in the coolest manner by that 
vile Carver Doone. For thinking to keep 
them the fresher and nicer, away from so 
much handling, I laid them in a little bed 
of reeds by the side of the water, and placed 
some dog -leaves over them. And when I 
bad quite forgotten about them, and was 
watching from my hiding-place beneath the 
willow-tree (for I liked not to enter Lorna’s 
bower without her permission, except just 
to peep that she was not there), and while 
I was turning the ring in my pocket, having 
just seen the new moon, I became aware of 
a great man coming leisurely down the val- 
ley. He had a broad -brimmed hat,- and a 
leather jerkin, and heavy jack-boots to his 
middle thigh, and, what was worst of all for 
me, on his shoulder he bore a long carbine. 
Having nothing to meet him withal but my 
staff, and desiring to avoid disturbance, I re- 
tired promptly into the chasm, keeping the 
tree betwixt us that he might not descry me, 
and watching from behind the jut of a rock, 
where now I had scraped myself a neat lit- 
tle hole for the purpose. 

Presently the great man re-appeared, be- 
ing now within fifty yards of me, and the 
light still good enough, as he drew nearer, 
for me to descry his features; and though 
I am not a judge of men’s faces, there was 
something in his which turned me cold, as 
though with a kind of horror. Not that it 
w T as an ugly face ; nay, rather, it seemed a 
handsome one, so far as mere form and line 
might go, full of strength, and vigor, and 
will, and steadfast resolution. From the 
short black hair above the broad forehead, 
to the long black beard descending below 
the curt bold chin, there was not any curve 
or glimpse of weakness or of after-thought. 
Nothing playful, nothing pleasant, nothing 
with a track for smiles; nothing which a 
friend could like, and laugh at him for hav- 
ing. And yet he might have been a good 
man (for I have known very good men so 
fortified by their own strange ideas of God) : 
I say that he might have seemed a good 
man, but for the cold and cruel hankering 
of his steel-blue eyes. 

Now let no one suppose for a minute that 
I saw all this in a moment ; for I am very 
slow, and take a long time to digest things ; 
only I like to set down, and have done with 
it, all the results of my knowledge, though 
they be not manifold. But what I said 
to myself just then was no more than this: 
“What a fellow to have Lorna!” Having 
my sense of right so outraged (although, 
of course, I would never allow her to go so 
far as that), I almost longed that he might 
thrust his head in to look after me. For 
rtkere I was, with my ash staff clubbed, 


ready to have at him, and not ill inclined to 
do so if only he would come where strength, 
not fire-arms, must decide it. However, he 
suspected nothing of my dangerous neigh- 
borhood, but walked his round like a senti- 
nel, and turned at the brink of the water. 

Then, as he marched back again along 
the margin of the stream, he espied my lit- 
tle hoard, covered up with dog-leaves. He 
saw that the leaves were upside down, and 
this of course drew his attention. I saw 
him stoop and lay bare the fish, and the 
eggs set a little way from them ; and in my 
simple heart I thought that now he knew 
all about me. But, to my surprise, he seem- 
ed well pleased ; and his harsh, short laugh- 
ter came to me without echo — 

u Ha, ha ! Charlie boy ! Fisherman Char- 
lie, have I caught thee setting bait for Lor- 
na ? Now I understand thy fishings, and 
the robbing of Counselor’s hen-roost. May 
I never have good roasting, if I have it not 
to-night, and roast thee, Charlie, afterward !” 

With this he calmly packed up my fish, 
and all the best of dear Annie’s eggs, and 
went away, chuckling steadfastly, to his 
home, if one may call it so. But I was so 
thoroughly grieved and mortified by this 
most impudent robbery, that I started forth 
from my rocky screen with the intention of 
pursuing him, until my better sense arrest- 
ed me, barely in time to escape his eyes. 
For I said to myself, that even supposing I 
could contend unarmed with him, it would 
be the greatest folly in the world to have 
my secret access known, and perhaps a fatal 
barrier placed between Lorna and myself, 
and I knew not what trouble brought upon 
her, all for the sake of a few eggs and fishes. 
It was better to bear this trifling loss, how- 
ever ignominious and goading to the spirit, 
than to risk my love and Lorna’s welfare, 
and perhaps be shot into the bargain. And 
I think that all will agree with me that I 
acted for the wisest, in withdrawing to my 
shelter, though deprived of eggs and fishes. 

Having waited (as I said) until there was 
no chance whatever of my love appearing, 
I hastened homeward very sadly ; and the 
wind of early autumn moaned across the 
moor-land. All the beauty of the harvest, 
all the gayety was gone, and the early fall 
of dusk was like a weight upon me. Never- 
theless, I went every evening thenceforward 
for a fortnight ; hoping, every time in vain, 
to find my hope and comfort. And mean- 
while what perplexed me most was that 
the signals were replaced, in order as agreed 
upon, so that Lorna could scarcely be re- 
strained by any rigor. 

One time I had a narrow chance of being 
shot and settled with ; and it befell me thus. 
I was waiting very carelessly, being now a 
little desperate, at the entrance to the glen, 
instead of watching through my sight-hole, 
as the proper practice was. Suddenly a 


LORNA DOONE. 


113 


ball went by me with a whizz and whistle, 
passing through my hat, and sweeping it 
away all folded up. My soft hat fluttered 
far down the stream before I had time to go 
after it, and with the help of both wind aud 
water, was fifty yards gone in a moment. 
At this I had just enough mind left to shrink 
back very suddenly, and lurk very still and 
closely ; for I knew what a narrow escape 
it had been, as I heard the bullet, hard set 
by the powder, sing mournfully down the 
chasm, like a drone banished out of the hive. 
And as I peered through my little cranny, J 
saw a. wreath of smoke still floating whei3 
the thickness was of the withy-bed; and 
presently Carver Doone came forth, having 
stopped to reload his piece perhaps, and ran 
very swiftly to the entrance to see what he 
had shot. 

Sore trouble had I to keep close quarters, 
from the slipperiness of the stone beneath 
me, with the water sliding over it. My foe 
came quite to the verge of the fall, where 
the river began to comb over ; and there he 
stopped for a minute or two, on the utmost 
edge of dry land, upon the very spot indeed 
where I had fallen senseless when I clomb 
it in my boyhood. I could hear him breath- 
ing hard and grunting, as in doubt and dis- 
content, for he stood within a yard of me, 
and I kept my right fist ready for him if he 
should discover me. Then at the foot of the 
water-slide my black hat suddenly appeared, 
tossing in white foam, and fluttering like a 
raven wounded. Now I had doubted which 
hat to take when I left home that day ; till 
I thought that the black became me best, 
and might seem kinder to Lorna. 

“ Have I killed thee, old bird, at last ?” 
my enemy cried in triumph ; “ ’tis the third 
time I have shot at thee, and thou wast be- 
ginning to mock me. No more of thy cursed 
croaking now, to wake me in the morning. 
Ha, ha ! there are not many who get three 
chances from Carver Doone ; and none ever 
go beyond it.” 

I laughed within myself at this, as he 
strode away in his triumph ; for was not this 
his third chance of me, and he no whit the 
wiser? And then I thought that perhaps 
the chance might some day be on the other 
side. 

For, to tell the truth, I was heartily tired 
of lurking and playing bo-peep so long ; to 
which nothing could have reconciled me 
except my fear for Lorna. And here I saw 
was a man of strength fit for me to encoun- 
ter such as I had never met, but would be 
glad to meet with ; having found no man of 
late who needed not my mercy at wrestling 
or at single-stick. And growing more and 
more uneasy, as I found no Lorna, I would 
have tried to force the Doone Glen from the 
upper end, and take my chance of getting 
back, but for Annie and her prayers. 

Now that same night I think it was, or at 
8 


any rate the next one, that I noticed Betty 
Muxworthy going on most strangely. She 
made the queerest signs to me when nobody 
was looking, and laid her fingers on her lips, 
and pointed over her shoulder. But I took 
little heed of her, being in a kind of dudgeon, 
and oppressed with evil luck ; believing, too, 
that all she wanted was to have some little 
grumble about some petty grievance. 

But presently she poked me with the heel 
of a fire-bundle, aud, passing close to my ear, 
whispered, so that none else could hear her, 
“ Larna Doo-un.” 

By these words I was so startled, that I 
turned round and stared at her ; but she 
pretended not to know it, and began with 
all her might to scour an empty crock with 
a besom. 

“ Oh, Betty, let me help you ! That work 
is much too hard for you!” I cried, with a 
sudden chivalry, which only won rude an- 
swer. 

“ Zeed me a-dooing of thic every naight 
last ten year, Jan, wiout vindin’ out how 
hard it wor. But if zo bee thee wants to 
help, carr peg’s bucket for me. Massy, if I 
ain’t forgotten to fade the pegs till now.” 

Favoring me with another wink, to which 
I now paid the keenest heed, Betty went 
and fetched the lantern from the hook inside 
the door. Then, when she had kindled it, 
not allowing me any time to ask what she 
was after, she went outside, aud pointed to 
the great bock of wash, and riddliugs, and 
brown hulkage (for we ground our own com 
always) ; and though she knew that Bill 
Dadds and Jem Slocombe had full work to 
carry it on a pole (with another to help to 
sling it), she said to me as quietly as a 
maiden might ask one to carry a glove, 
“Jan Ridd, carr thic thing for me.” 

So I carried it for her without any words, 
wondering what she was up to next, and 
whether she had ever heard of being too 
hard on the willing horse. And when we 
came to hog-pound, she turned upon me sud- 
denly, with the lantern she was bearing, and 
saw that I had the bock by one hand very 
easily. 

“Jan Ridd,” she said, “there be no other 
man in Eugland cud a’ dood it. Now thee 
shalt have Larna.” 

While I was wondering how my chance 
of having Lorna could depend upon my 
power to carry pig’s-wash, aud how Betty 
could have any voice in the matter (which 
seemed to depend upon her decision), and 
in short, while I was all abroad as to her 
knowledge and every thing, the pigs, who 
had been fast asleep and dreaming in their 
emptiness, awoke with one accord at the 
goodness of the smell around them. They 
had resigned themselves, as even pigs do, to 
a kind of fast, hoping to break their fast 
more sweetly on the morrow morning. But 
now they tumbled out all headlong, pigs be- 


114 


LORNA DOONE. 


low and pigs above, pigs point-blank and 
pigs across, pigs courant and pigs rampant, 
* but all alike prepared to eat, and all in good 
cadence squeaking. 

“ Tak smarl boocket, and bale uu out ; wad 
’e waste sicli stoof as thic liere be ?” So 
Betty set me to feed the pigs, while she held 
the lantern ; and knowing what she was, I 
saw that she would not tell me another word 
until all the pigs were served. And in truth 
no man could well look at them and delay 
to serve them, they were all expressing ap- 
petite in so forcible a manner; some running 
to and fro, and rubbing and squealing as if 
from starvation, some rushing down to the 
oaken troughs, and poking each other away 
from them ; and the kindest of all putting 
up their fore-feet on the top rail of the hog- 
pound, and blinking their little eyes, and 
grunting prettily to coax us ; as who should 
say, “ 1 trust you now ; you will be kind, I 
know, and give me the first and the very 
best of it.” 

“ Oppen ge-at now, wull ’e, Jan ? Maind, 
young sow wi’ the baible back arlway hath 
first toorn of it, ’cos I brought her up on my 
lap, I did. Zuck, zuck, zuck! How her 
stickth her tail up ; do me good to zee uu ! 
Now thiccy trough, thee zany, and tak thee 
girt legs out o’ the wai. Wish they wud 
gie thee a good baite, mak thee hop a bit 
vaster, I reckon. ‘Hit that there girt oze- 
bird over’s back wi’ the broomstick, he be 
robbing of my young zow. Choog, choog, 
choog ! and a drap more left in the dipping- 
pail.” 

“ Come now, Betty,” I said, when all the 
pigs were at it, sucking, swilling, munching, 
guzzling, thrusting, and ousting, and spill- 
ing the food upon the backs of their brethren 
(as great men do with their charity), “ come 
now, Betty, how much longer am I to wait 
for your message ? Surely I am as good as 
a pig.” 

“Dunno as thee be, Jan. No strakiness 
in thy bakkon. And now I come to think 
of it, Jan, thee zed, a wake agone last Yri- 
day, as how I had got a girt be-ard. Wull 
’e stick to that now, Maister Jan ?” 

“No, no, Betty, certainly not; I made a 
mistake about it. I should have said a be- 
coming mustache, such as you may well be 
proud of.” 

“ Then thee be a laiar, Jan Ridd. Zay so, 
laike a man, lad.” 

“Not exactly that, Betty; but I made a 
great mistake : and I humbly ask your par- 
don ; and if such a thing as a crown-piece, 
Betty — ” 

“ No fai, no fai !” said Betty ; however she 
put it into her pocket ; “ now tak my ad- 
vice, Jan; thee marry Zally Snowe.” 

“Not with all England for her dowry. 
Oh Betty, you know better.” 

“Ah’s me! I know much worse, Jan. 
Break thy poor mother’s heart it will. And 


to think of arl the dannger ! Dost love Lai’" 
na now so much ?” 

“With all the strength of my heart and 
soul. I will have her, or I will die, Betty.” 

“Wull; thee will die in aither case. But 
it baint for me to argify. And do her love 
thee too, Jan ?” 

“ I hope she does, Betty. I hope she does. 
What do you think about it ?” 

“Ah, then I may hold my tongue to it. 
Knaw what boys and maidens be, as well as' 
I knaw young pegs. I myzell been o’ that 
zort one taime every bit so well as you be.” 
And Betty held the lantern up, and defied 
me to deny it; and the light through the 
horn showed a gleam in her eyes, such as I 
had never seen there before. “No odds, no- 
odds about that,” she continued ; “ mak a 
fool of myzell to spake of it. Arl gone into 
church-yard. But it be a lucky foolery for 
thee, my boy, I can tull ’ee. For I love to 
see the love in thee. Coom’th over me as 
the spring do, though I be naigk three-score. 
Now, Jan, I will tell thee one thing, can’t 
abear to zee thee vretting so. Hould thee 
head down, same as they pegs do.” 

So I bent my head quite close to her; and 
she whispered in rny ear, “ Goo of a marm 
ing, thee girt soft. Her can’t get out of an 
avening now ; her hath zent word to me, to 
tull ’ee.” 

In the glory of my delight at this, I be* 
stowed upon Betty a chaste salute, with all 
the pigs for witnesses; and she took it not 
amiss, considering how long she had been 
out of practice. But then she fell back, like 
a broom on its handle, and stared at me, 
feigning anger. 

“ Oh fai, oh fai ! Lunnon impudence, I 
doubt. I vear thee hast gone on zadly, Jan.”' 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

AN EARLY MORNING CALL. 

Of course I was up the very next morn- 
ing before the October sunrise, and away 
through the wild and the woodland toward 
the Bagworthy water, at the foot of the long 
cascade. The rising of the sun was noble 
in the cold and warmth of it ; peeping down 
the spread of light, he raised his shoulder 
heavily over the edge of gray mountain and 
wavering length of upland. Beneath his 
gaze the dew-fogs dipped, and crept to the 
hollow places ; then stole away in line and 
column, holding skirts, and clinging subtly 
at the sheltering corners, where rock hung 
over grass-laud ; while the brave lines of the 
hills came forth, one beyond other gliding. 

Then the woods arose in folds, like dra- 
pery of awakened mountains, stately with a 
depth of awe, and memory of the tempests. 
Autumn’s mellow hand was on them, as 
they owned already, touched with gold, and. 


LORNA DOONE. 


115 


red, and olive; and their joy toward the 
eun was less to a bridegroom than a father. 

Yet before the floating impress of the 
woods could clear itself, suddenly the glad- 
some light leaped over hill and valley, cast- 
ing amber, blue, and purple, and a tint of 
rich red rose, according to the scene they 
lit on, and the curtain flung around ; yet all 
alike dispelling fear and the cloven hoof of 
darkness, all on the w r ings of hope advan- 
cing, and proclaiming “ God is here.” Then 
life and joy sprang re -assured from every 
crouching hollow ; every flower, and bud, 
and bird had a fluttering sense of them ; and 
all the flashing of God’s gaze merged into 
soft beneficence. 

So perhaps shall break upon us that eter- 
nal morning, when crag and chasm shall be 
no more, neither hill and valley, nor great 
unvintaged ocean ; when glory shall not 
scare happiness, neither happiness envy 
glory ; but all things shall arise and shine 
in the light of a Father’s countenance, be- 
cause itself is risen. 

Who maketh His sun to rise upon both 
the just and the unjust. And surely but 
for the saving clause, Doone Glen had been 
in darkness. Now, as I stood with scanty 
breath — for few men could have won that 
climb — at the top of the long defile, and the 
bottom of the mountain gorge, all of myself, 
and the pain of it, and the cark of my dis- 
content fell away into wonder and rapture. 
For I can not help seeing things now and 
then, slow-witted as I have a right to be ; 
and perhaps because it comes so rarely, the 
sight dwells with me like a picture. 

The bar of rock, with the water-cleft 
breaking steeply through it, stood bold and 
bare, and dark in shadow, gray with red gul- 
lies down it. But the sun was beginning to 
glisten over the comb of the eastern high- 
land, and through an archway of the wood 
hung with old nests and ivy. The lines of 
many a leaning tree were thrown, from the 
cliffs of the foreland, down upon the spark- 
ling grass at the foot of the western crags. 
And through the dewy meadow’s breast, 
friuged with shade, but touched on one side 
with the sun-smile, ran the crystal water, 
curving in its brightness, like diverted hope. 

On either bank, the blades of grass, 
making their last autumn growth, pricked 
their spears and crisped their tuftings with 
the pearly purity. The tenderness of their 
green appeared under the glaucous mantle ; 
while that gray suffusion, which is the blush 
of green life, spread its damask chastity. 
Even then my soul was lifted, worried 
though my mind was : who can see such 
large, kind doings, and not be ashamed of 
human grief? 

Not only unashamed of grief, but much 
abashed with joy was I, when I saw my Lor- 
na coming, purer than the morning dew, 
than the sun more bright and clear. That 


which made me love her so, that which lift- 
ed my heart to her, as the spring wind lifts 
the clouds, was the gayness of her nature, 
and its inborn playfulness. And yet all this 
with maiden shame, a conscious dream of 
things unknown, and a sense of fate about 

them. 

Down the valley still she came, not wit- 
ting that I looked at her, having ceased 
(through my own misprision) to expect me 
yet a while ; or at least she told herself so. 
In the joy of awakened life, and brightness 
of the morning, she had cast all care away, 
and seemed to float upon the sunrise, like a 
buoyant silver wave. Suddenly, at sight of 
me, for I leaped forth at once, in fear of seem- 
ing to watch her unawares, the bloom upon 
her cheeks was deepened, and the radiance 
of her eyes, and she came to meet me gladly. 

“At last, then, you are come, John. I 
thought yon had forgotten me. I could not 
make you understand — they have kept me 
prisoner every evening; but come into my 
house ; you are in danger here.” 

Meanwhile I could not answer, being over- 
come with joy,, but followed to her little 
grotto, where I had been twice before. I 
knew that the crowning moment of my life 
was coming — that Lorna would own her 
love for me. 

She made for a while as if she dreamed 
not of the meaning of my gaze, but tried 
to speak of other things, faltering now and 

then, and mantling with a richer damask 
below her long eyelashes. 

“ This is not what I came to know,” I 
whispered, very softly ; “ you know what I 
am come to ask.” 

“ If you are come on purpose to ask any 
thing, why do you delay so?” She turned 
away very bravely, but I saw that her lips 
were trembling. 

“I delay so long because I fear; because 
my whole life hangs in balance on a single 
word; because what I have near me now 
may never more be near me after, though 
more than all the world, or than a thousand 
worlds, to me.” As I spoke these words of 
passion in a low, soft voice, Lorna trembled 
more and more ; but she made no answer, 
neither yet looked up at me. 

“ I have loved you long and long,” I pur- 
sued, being reckless now ; “ when you were 
a little child, as a boy I worshiped you: 
then, when I saw you a comely girl, as a 
stripling I adored you: now that you are a 
full-grown maiden, all the rest I do, and 
more — I love you more than tongue can tell, 
or heart can hold in silence. I have wait- 
ed long and long ; and though I am so far 
below you, I can wait no longer, but must 
have my answer.” 

“You have been very faithful, John,” she 
murmured to the fern and moss ; “ I sup- 
pose I must reward you.” 

“ That will not do for me,” I said ; “ I will 


116 


LORNA DOONE. 


not have reluctant liking, nor assent for 
pity’s sake ; which only means endurance. 
I must have all love, or none ; I must have 
your heart of hearts ; even as you have mine, 
Lorna.” 

While I spoke, she glanced up shyly 
through her fluttering lashes, to prolong my 
doubt one moment, for her own delicious 
pride. Then she opened wide upon me all 
the glorious depth and softness of her loving 
eyes, and flung both arms around my neck, 
and answered, with her heart on mine, 

“ Darling, you have won it all. I shall 
never be my own again. I am yours, my 
own one, forever and forever.” 

I am sure I know not what I did, or what 
I said thereafter, being overcome with trans- 
port by her words and at her gaze. Only 
one thing I remember, when she raised her 
bright lips to me, like a child, for me to kiss, 
such a smile of sweet temptation met me 
through her flowing hair, that I almost for- 
got my manners, giving her no time to 
breathe. 

“That will do,” said Lorna, gently, but vi- 
olently blushing ; “ for the present that will 
do, John. And now remember one thing, 
dear. All the kindness is to be on my side ; 
and you are to be very distant as behooves 
to a young maiden, except when I invite 
you. But you may kiss my hand, John ; 
oh yes, you may kiss my hand, you know. 
Ah, to be sure ! I had forgotten ; how very 
stupid of me !” 

For by this time I had taken one sweet 
hand and gazed on it, with the pride of all 
the world to think that such a lovely thing 
was mine ;' and then I slipped my little ring 
upon the wedding - finger ; and this time 
Lorna kept it, and looked with fondness on 
its beauty, and clung to me with a flood of 
tears. 

“Every time you cry,” said I, drawing 
her closer to me, “ I shall consider it an in- 
vitation not to be too distant. There, now, 
none shall make you weep. Darling, you 
shall sigh no more, but live in peace and 
happiness with me to guard and cherish 
you : and who shall dare to vex you ?” But 
she drew a long, sad sigh, and looked at the 
ground with the great tears rolling, and 
pressed one hand upon the trouble of her 
pure young breast. 

“ It can never, never be,” she murmured 
to herself alone : “who am I, to dream of it? 
Something in my heart tells me it can be so 
never, never.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

TWO NEGATIVES MAKE AN AFFIRMATIVE. 

There was, however, no possibility of de- 
pressing me at such a time. To be loved by 
Lorna, the sweet, the pure, the playful one, 


the fairest creature on God’s earth and the 
most enchanting, the lady of high birth and 
mind ; that I, a mere clumsy, blundering 
yeoman, without wit, or wealth, or lineage, 
should have won that loving heart to be my 
own forever, was a thought no fears could 
lessen, and no chance could steal from me. 

Therefore, at her own entreaty, taking a 
very quick adieu, and by her own invitation 
an exceeding kind one, I hurried home with 
deep exulting, yet some sad misgivings, for 
Lorna had made me promise now to tell my 
mother every thing; as indeed I always 
meant to do, when my suit should be gone 
too far to stop. I knew of course that my 
dear mother would be greatly moved and 
vexed, the heirship of Glen Doone not being 
a very desirable dower ; but in spite of that, 
and all disappointment as to little Ruth 
Huckaback, feeling my mother’s tenderness 
and deep affection to me, and forgiving na- 
ture, I doubted not that before very long she 
would view the matter as I did. Moreover, 
I felt that, if once I could get her only to 
look at Lorna, she would so love and glory 
in her, that I should obtain all praise and 
thanks, perchance without deserving them. 

Unluckily for my designs, who should be 
sitting down at breakfast with my mother 
and the rest but Squire Faggus, as every 
body now began to entitle him. I noticed 
something odd about him, something uncom- 
fortable in his manner, and a lack of that 
ease and humor which had been wont to dis- 
tinguish him. He took his breakfast as it 
came, without a single joke about it, or pref- 
erence of this to that, but with sly, soft looks 
at Annie, who seemed unable to sit quiet, or 
to look at any one steadfastly. I feared in 
my heart what was coming on, and felt tru- 
ly sorry for poor mother. After breakfast 
it became my duty to see to the plowing of 
a barley -stubble, ready for the sowing of 
French grass, and I asked Tom Faggus to 
come with me ; but he refused, and I knew 
the reason. Being resolved to allow him 
fair field to himself, though with great dis- 
pleasure that a man of such illegal repute 
should marry into our family, which had al- 
ways been counted so honest, I carried my 
dinner upon my back, and spent the whole 
day with the furrows. 

When I returned, Squire Faggus was gone ; 
which appeared to me but a sorry sign, in- 
asmuch as if mother had taken kindly to 
him and to his intentions, she would surely 
have made him remain a while to celebrate 
the occasion. And presently no doubt was 
left ; for Lizzie came running to meet me, at 
the bottom of the wood-rick, and cried, 

“ Oh, John, there is such a business! Moth- 
er is in such a state of mind, aud Annie cry- 
ing her eyes out! What do you think ? You 
never would guess, though I have suspected 
it ever so long.” 

“ No need for me to guess,” I replied, as 


LORNA DOONE. 


117 


though with some indifference, because of 
her self-important air ; “ I knew all about it 
long ago. You have not been crying much, 
I see. I should like you better if you had.” 

“ Why should I cry ? I like Tom Faggus. 
He is the only one I ever see with the spirit 
of a man.” 

This was a cut, of course, at me. Mr. Fag- 
gus had won the good-will of Lizzie by his 
hatred of the Doones, and vows that if he 
could get a dozen men of any courage to join 
him, he would pull their stronghold about 
their ears without any more ado. This mal- 
ice of his seemed strange to me, as he had 
never suffered at their hands, so far, at least, 
as I knew. Was it to be attributed to his 
jealousy of outlaws who excelled him in his 
business ? Not being good at repartee, I 
made no answer to Lizzie, having found this 
course more irksome to her than the very 
best invective : and so we entered the house 
together; and mother sent at once for me, 
while I was trying to console my darling sis- 
ter Annie. 

“ Oh, John ! speak one good word for me,” 
she cried, with both hands laid in mine, and 
her tearful eyes looking up at me. 

“ Not one, my pet, but a hundred,” I an- 
swered, kindly embracing her: “have no 
fear, little sister : I am going to make your 
case so bright, by comparison, I mean, that 
mother will send for you in five minutes, 
and call you her best, her most dutiful child, 
and praise Cousin Tom to the skies, and send 
a man on horseback after him ; and then you 
will have a harder task to intercede for me, 
my dear.” 

“ Oh, John, dear John, you won’t tell her 
about Lorna — oh not to-day, dear.” 

“Yes, to-day, and at once, Annie. I want 
to have it over, and be done with it.” 

“ Oh, but think of her, dear. I am* sure 
she could not bear it, after this great shock 
already.” 

“ She will bear it all the better,” said I ; 
“ the one will drive the other out. I know 
exactly what mother is. She will be desper- 
ately savage first with you, and then with 
me, and then for a very little while with 
both of us together ; and then she will put 
one against the other (in her mind, I mean), 
and consider which was most to blame ; and 
in doing that she will be compelled to find 
the best in cither’s case, that it may beat the 
other ; and so as the pleas come before her 
mind, they will gain upon the charges, both 
of us being her children, you know : and be- 
fore very long (particularly if we both keep 
out of the way) she will begin to think that 
after all she has been a little too hasty ; and 
then she will remember how good we have 
always been to her, and how like our father. 
Upon that she will think of her own love- 
time, and sigh a good bit, and cry a little, and 
then smile, and send for both of us, and beg 
our pardon, and call us her two darlings.” 


“Now, John, how on earth can you know 
all that ?” exclaimed my sister, wiping her 
eyes, and gazing at me with a soft bright 
smile. “Who on earth can have told you, 
John? People to call you stupid, indeed! 
Why, I feel that all you say is quite true, 
because you describe so exactly what I 
should do myself ; I mean — I mean if I had 
two children, who had behaved as we have 
done. But tell me, darling John, how you 
learned all this.” 

“ Never you mind,” I replied, with a nod 
of some conceit, I fear ; “ I must be a fool 
if I did not know what mother is by this 
time.” 

Now, inasmuch as the thing befell accord- 
ing to my prediction, what need for me to 
dwell upon it, after saying how it would be ? 
Moreover, I would regret to write down 
what mother said about Lorna, in her first 
surprise and tribulation ; not only because 
I was grieved by the gross injustice of it, 
and frightened mother with her own words 
(repeated deeply after her) ; but rather be- 
cause it is not well, when people repent of 
hasty speech, to enter it against them. 

That is said to be the angels’ business ; 
and I doubt if they can attend to it much, 
without doing injury to themselves. 

However, by the afternoon, when the sun 
began to go down upon us, our mother sat 
on the garden bench, with her head on my 
great otter-skin waistcoat (which was wa- 
ter-proof), and her right arm round our An- 
nie’s waist, and scarcely knowing which of 
us she ought to make the most of, or which 
deserved most pity. Not that she had for- 
given yet the rivals to her love — Tom Fag- 
gus, I mean, and Lorna — but that she was 
beginning to think a little better of them 
now, and a vast deal better of her own 
children. 

And it helped her much in this regard, 
that she was not thinking half so well as 
usual of herself, or rather of her own judg- 
ment; for in good truth she had no self, 
only as it came home to her, by no very dis- 
tant road, but by way of her children. A 
better mother never lived ; and can I, after 
searching all things, add another word to 
that ? 

And indeed poor Lizzie was not so very 
bad ; but behaved (on the whole) very well 
for her. She was much to be pitied, poor 
thing, and great allowances made for her, 
as belonging to a well-grown family, and a 
very comely one, and feeling her own short- 
comings. This made her leap to the other 
extreme, and re-assert herself too much, en- 
deavoring to exalt the mind at the expense 
of the body ; because she had the invisible 
one (so far as can be decided) in better share 
than the visible. Not but what she had her 
points, and very comely points of body ; love- 
ly eyes, to wit, and very beautiful hands and 
feet (almost as good as Lorna’s), and a neck 


118 


LORNA DOONE. 


as white as snow ; hut Lizzie was not gifted 
with our gait and port, and bouudiug health. 

Now, while we v sat on the garden bench, 
under the great ash-tree, we left dear moth- 
er to take her own way, and talk at her own 
pleasure. Children almost always are more 
wide-awake than their parents. The fa- 
thers and the mothers laugh ; but the young 
ones have the best of them. And now both 
Annie knew, and I, that we had gotten the 
best of mother; and therefore we let her 
lay down the law, as if we had been two 
dollies. 

“ Darling John,” my mother said, “your 
case is a very hard one. A young and very 
romantic girl — God send that I be right in 
my charitable view of her — has met an 
equally simply boy, among great dangers 
and difficulties, from which my son has saved 
her, at the risk of his life at every step. Of 
course, she became attached to him, and 
looked up to him in every way as a superior 
being — ” 

“ Come, now, mother,” I said ; “ if you 
only saw Lorna, you would look upon me as 
the lowest dirt — ” 

“No doubt I should,” my mother answer- 
ed ; “ and the king, and queen, and all the 
royal family. Well, this poor angel, having 
made up her mind to take compassion upon 
my son, when he had saved her life so many 
times, persuades him to marry her out of 
pure pity, and throw his poor mother over- 
board. And the saddest part of it all is 
this — ” 

“ That my mother will never, never, never 
understand the truth,” said I. 

“ That is all I wish,” she answered ; “just 
to get at the simple truth from my own per- 
ception of it. John, you are very wise in 
kissing me ; but perhaps you would not be 
so wise in bringing Lorna for an afternoon, 
just to see what she thinks of me. There 
is a good saddle of mutton now, and there 
are some very good sausages left on the blue 
dish with the anchor, Annie, from the last 
little sow we killed.” 

“ As if Lorna would eat sausages !” said I, 
with appearance of high contempt, though 
rejoicing all the while that mother seemed 
to have her name so pat ; and she pronounced 
it in a manner which made my heart leap to 
my ears : “ Lorna to eat sausages !” 

“ I don’t see why she shouldn’t,” my moth- 
er answered, smiling ; “ if she means to be 
a farmer’s wife, she must take to farmer’s 
ways, I think. What do you say, Annie ?” 

“She will eat whatever John desires, I 
should hope,” said Annie, gravely ; “partic- 
ularly as I made them.” 

“Oh that I could only get the chance of 
trying her !” I answered ; “if you could once 
behold her, mother, you would never let her 
go again. And she would love you with all 
her heart, she is so good and gentle.” 

“ That is a lucky thing for me.” Saying 


this, my mother wept, as she had been doing 
off and on, when no one seemed to look at 
her; “otherwise I suppose, John, she would 
very soon turn me out of the farm, having 
you so completely under her thumb, as she 
seems to have. I see now that my time is 
over. Lizzie and I will seek our fortunes. 
It is wiser so.” 

“ Now, mother,” I ‘cried, “ will you have 
the kindness not to talk any nonsense ? 
Every thing belongs to you ; and so, I hope, 
your children do. And you, in turn, belong 
to us ; as you have proved ever since — oh, 
ever since we can remember. Why do you 
make Annie cry so ? You ought to know 
better than that.” 

Mother, upon this, went over all the things 
she had done before; how many times I 
know not ; neither does it matter. Only she 
seemed to enjoy it more, every time of doing 
it. And then she said she was an old fool ; 
and Annie (like a thorough girl) pulled her 
one gray hair out. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

RUTH IS NOT LIKE LORNA. 

Although, by our mother’s reluctant con- 
sent, a large part of the obstacles between 
Annie and her lover appeared to be removed, 
on the other hand Lorna and myself gained 
little, except as regarded comfort of mind, 
and some ease to the conscience. Moreover, 
our chance of frequent meetings and de- 
lightful converse was much impaired, at 
least for the present ; because though moth- 
er was not aware of my narrow escape from 
Carver Doone, she made me promise never 
to risk my life by needless visits. And upon 
this point — that is to say, the necessity of 
the visit — she was well content, as she said, 
to leave me to my own good sense and hon- 
or ; only begging me always to tell her of my 
intention beforehand. This pledge, how- 
ever, for her own sake, I declined to give, 
knowing how wretched she would be during 
all the time of my absence ; and on that ac- 
count I promised instead, that I would al- 
ways give her a full account of my adventure 
upon returning. 

Now my mother, as might be expected, 
began at once to cast about for some means 
of relieving me from all further peril, and 
herself from great anxiety. She was full of 
plans for fetching Lorna in some wonderful 
manner out of the power of the Doones en- 
tirely, and into her own hauds, where she was 
to remain for at least a twelvemonth, learn- 
ing all mother and Annie could teach her of 
dairy business, and farm-house life, and the 
best mode of packing butter. And all this 
arose from my happening to say, without 
meaning any thing, how the poor dear had 
longed for quiet, and a life of simplicity, and 


LORNA DOONE. 


119 


a rest away from violence ! Bless thee, moth- 
er — now long in heaven, there is no need to 
bless thee ; but it often makes a dimness now 
in my well-worn eyes, when I think of thy 
loving-kindness, warmth, and romantic inno- 
cence. 

As to stealing my beloved from that vile 
Glen Doone, the deed itself was not impossi- 
ble, nor beyond my dariug ; but, in the first 
place, would she come, leaving her old grand- 
father to die without her tendence? And 
even if, through fear of Carver and that 
wicked Counselor, she should consent to fly, 
would it be possible to keep her without a 
regiment of soldiers ? Would not the Doones 
at once ride forth to scour the country for 
their queen, and finding her (as they must 
do), burn our house and murder us, and car- 
ry her back triumphantly ? 

All this I laid before my mother, and to 
such effect that she acknowledged, with a 
.sigh, that nothing else remained for me (in 
the present state of matters) except to keep 
a careful watch upon Lorn a from safe dis- 
tance, observe the policy of the Doones, and 
wait for a tide in their affairs. Meanwhile 
I might even fall in love (as mother unwise- 
ly hinted) with a certain more peaceful heir- 
ess, although of inferior blood, who would 
be daily at my elbow. I am not sure but 
what dear mother herself would have been 
disappointed, had I proved myself so fickle ; 
and my disdain and indignation at the mere 
suggestion did not so much displease her, 
for she only smiled and answered : 

“ Well, it is not for me to say ; God knows 
what is good for us. Likings will not come 
to order ; otherwise I should not be where I 
am this day. And of one thing I am rather 
glad; Uncle Reuben well deserves that his 
pet scheme should miscarry — he who call- 
ed my boy a coward, an ignoble coward, be- 
cause he would not join some crack-brained 
plan against the valley which sheltered his 
beloved one ! And all the time this dread- 
ful 1 coward ’risking his life daily there, with- 
out a word to any one ! How glad I am that 
you will not have, for all her miserable mon- 
ey, that little dwarfish granddaughter of the 
insolent old miser !” 

She turned, and by her side was standing 
poor Ruth Huckaback herself, white and 
sad, and looking steadily at my mother’s 
face, which became as red as a plum, while 
her breath deserted her. 

“If you please, madam,” said the little 
maiden, with her large calm eyes unwaver- 
ing, “ it is not my fault, but God Almighty’s, 
that I am a little dwarfish creature. I knew 
not that you regarded me with so much con- 
tempt on thUbt account ; neither have you 
told my grandfather, at least within my hear- 
ing, that he was an insolent old miser. When 
I return to Dulverton, which I trust to do to- 
morrow (for it is too late to-day), I shall be 
careful not to tell him your opinion of him, 


lest I should thwart any schemes you may 
have upon his property. I thank you all 
for your kindness to me, which has been 
very great; far more than a little dwarfish 
creature could, for her own sake, expect. I 
will only add, for your further guidance, one 
more little truth. It is by no means certain 
that my grandfather will settle any of his 
miserable money upon me. If I offend him, 
as I would in a moment, for the sake of a 
brave and straightforward man” — here she 
gave me a glance which I scarcely kuew 
what to do with — “ my grandfather, upright 
as he is, would leave me without a shilling. 
And I often wish it were so. So many mis- 
eries come upon me from the miserable mon- 
ey — ” Here she broke down, and burst out 
crying, and ran away with a faint good-bye, 
while we three looked at one another, and 
felt that we had the worst of it. 

“ Impudent little dwarf!” said my mother, 
recovering her breath after ever so long. 
“Oh John, how thankful you ought to be! 
What a life she would have led you !” 

“Well, I am sure!” said Annie, throwing 
her arms around poor mother : “ who could 
have thought that little atomy had such an 
outrageous spirit! For my part, I can not 
think how she can have been sly enough to 
hide it in that crafty manner, that John 
might thiuk her an angel !” 

“ Well, for my part,” I answered, laugh- 
ing, “I never admired Ruth Huckaback half 
or a quarter so much before. She is rare 
stuff. I would have been glad to have mar- 
ried her to-morrow, if I had never seen my 
Lorna.” 

“And a nice nobody I should have been, 
in my own house !” cried mother : “ I never 
can be thankful enough to darling Lorna 
for saving me. Did you see how her eyes 
flashed ?” 

“That I did; and very fine they were. 
Now nine maidens out of ten would have 
feigned not to have heard one word that 
was said, and have borne black malice in 
• their hearts. Come, Annie, now, would not 
you have done so ?” 

“ I think,” said Annie, “ although of course 
I can not tell — you know, John — that I 
should have been ashamed at hearing what 
was never meant for me, and should have 
been almost as angry with myself as any 
body.” 

“ So you would,” replied my mother; “ so 
any daughter of mine would have done, in- 
stead of railing and reviling. However, I 
am very sorry that any words of mine which 
the poor little thing chose to overhear should 
have made her so forget herself. I shall beg 
her pardon before she goes, and I shall ex- 
pect her to beg mine.” 

“ That she will never do,” said I ; “ a more 
resolute little maiden never yet had right 
upon her side ; although it was a mere ac- 
cident. I might have said the same thing 


120 


LORNA DOONE. 


myself ; and she was hard upon you, moth- 
er, dear.” 

After this we said no more, at least about 
that matter ; and little Ruth, the next morn- 
ing, left us, in spite of all that we could do. 
She vowed an everlastiug friendship to my 
younger sister Eliza ; but she looked at An- 
nie with some resentment, when they said 
good-bye, for being so much taller. At any 
rate, so Annie fancied, but she may have 
been quite wrong. I rode beside the little 
maid till far beyond Exeford, when all dan- 
ger of the moor was past, and then I left her 
with John Fry, not wishing to be too par- 
ticular, after all the talk about her money. 
She had tears in her eyes when she bade me 
farewell, and she sent a kind message home 
to mother, and promised to come again at 
Christmas, if she could win permission. 

Upon the whole, my opinion was that she 
had behaved uncommonly well for a maid 
whose self-love was outraged; with spirit, 
I mean, and proper pride ; and yet with a 
great endeavor to forgive, which is, meseems, 
the hardest of all things to a woman, outside 
of her own family. 

After this, for another month, nothing 
worthy of notice happened, except, of course, 
that I found it needful, according to the 
strictest good sense and honor, to visit Lor- 
na immediately after my discourse with 
mother, and to tell her all about it. My 
beauty gave me one sweet kiss with all her 
heart (as she always did, when she kissed 
at all), and I begged for one more to take to 
our mother, and before leaving I obtained 
it. It is not for me to tell all she said, even 
supposing (what is not likely) that any one 
cared to know it, being more and more pecul- 
iar to ourselves and no one else. But one 
thing that she said was this, and I took good 
care to carry it, word for word, to my mother 
and Annie : 

“ I never can believe, dear John, that after 
all the crime and outrage wrought by my 
reckless family, it ever can be meant for me 
to settle down to peace and comfort in a 
simple household. With all my heart I 
long for home ; any home, however dull and 
wearisome to those used to it, would seem a 
paradise to me, if only free from brawl and 
tumult, and such as I could call my own. 
But even if God would allow me this, in lieu 
of my wild inheritance, it is quite certain 
that the Doones never can, and never will.” 

Again, when I told her how my mother 
and Annie, as well as myself, longed to have 
her at Plover’s Barrows, and teach her all 
the quiet duties in which she was sure to 
take such delight, she only answered, with 
a bright blush, that while her grandfather 
was living she would never leave him ; and 
that even if she were free, certain ruin was 
all she should bring to any house that re- 
ceived her, at least within the utmost reach 
of her amiable family. This was too plain 


to be denied ; and seeing my dejection at it, 
she told me bravely that we must hope for 
better times, if possible, and asked how long 
I would wait for her. 

“Not a day, if I had my will,” I answer- 
ed, very warmly ; at which she turned away 
confused, and would not look at me for a 
while ; “ but all my life,” I went on to say, 
“if my fortune is so ill. And how long 
would you wait for me, Lorna ?” 

“Till I could get you,” she answered sly- 
ly, with a smile which was brighter to me 
than the brightest wit could be. “And 
now,” she continued, “ you bound me, John, 
with a very beautiful ring to you ; and when 
I dare not wear it, I carry it always on my 
heart. But I will bind you to me, you dear- 
est, with the very poorest and plainest thing 
that ever you set eyes on. I could give you 
fifty fairer ones, but they would not be hon- 
est ; and I love you for your honesty, and 
nothing else, of course, John; so don’t you 
be conceited. Look at it ; what a queer old 
thing ! There are some ancient marks upon 
it, very grotesque and wonderful ; it looks 
like a cat in a tree almost ; but never mind 
what it looks like. This old ring must have 
been a giant’s ; therefore it will fit you, per- 
haps, you enormous John. It has been on 
the front of my old glass necklace (which 
my grandfather found them taking away, 
and very soon made them give back again) 
ever since I can remember, and long be- 
fore that, as some woman told me. Now 
you seem very greatly amazed ; pray what 
thinks my lord of it ?” 

“ That it is worth fifty of the pearl thing 
which I gave you, you darling ; and that I 
will not take it from you.” 

“Then you will never take me, that is 
all. I will have nothing to do with a gen- 
tleman — ■” 

“No gentleman, dear — a yeoman.” 

“Very well, a yeoman — nothing to do 
with a yeoman who will not accept my 
love-gage. So, if you please, give it back 
again, and take your lovely ring back.” 

She looked at me in such a manner, half 
in earnest, half in jest, and three times three 
in love, that in spite of all good resolutions, 
and her own faint protest, I was forced to 
abandon all firm ideas, and kiss her till she 
was quite ashamed, and her head hung on 
my bosom, with the night of her hair shed 
over me. Then I placed the pearl ring 
back on the soft elastic bend of the finger 
she held up to scold me ; and on my own 
smallest finger drew the heavy hoop she 
had given me. I considered this with satis- 
faction, until my darling recovered herself ; 
and then I began very gravely about it, to 
keep her (if I could) from chiding me : 

“ Mistress Lorna, this is not the ring of 
any giant. It is nothing more nor less than 
a very ancient thumb-ring, such as once in 
my father’s time was plowed up out of the 


LORNA DOONE. 


121 


ground in our farm, and sent to learned doc- 
tors, who told us all about it, hut kept the 
ring for their trouble. I will accept it, my 
owu one love; and it shall go to my grave 
with me.” And so it shall, unless there be 
villains who would dare to rob the dead. 

Now I have spoken about this ring (though 
I scarcely meant to do so, and would rather 
keep to myself things so very holy) because 
it holds an important part in the history 
of my Lorn a. I asked her where the glass 
necklace was from which the ring was fas- 
tened, and which she had worn in her child- 
hood, and she answered that she hardly 
knew, but remembered that her grandfa- 
ther had begged her to give it up to him 
when she was ten years old or so, and had 
promised to keep it for her until she could 
take care of it ; at the same time giving her 
back the ring, and fastening it upon her 
pretty neck, and telling her to be proud of 
it. And so she always had been, and now 
from her sweet breast she took it, and it be- 
came John Ridd’s delight. 

All this, or at least great part of it, I told 
my mother truly, according to my promise ; 
and she was greatly pleased with Lorna for 
having been so good to me, and for speak- 
ing so very sensibly ; and then she looked at 
the great gold ring, but could by no means 
interpret it. Only she was quite certain, as 
indeed I myself was, that it must have be- 
longed to an ancient race of great consider- 
ation, and high rank, in their time. Upon 
which I was for taking it off, lest it should 
be degraded by a common farmer’s finger. 
But mother said, “ No,” with tears in her 
eyes ; “ if the common farmer had won the 
great lady of the ancient race, what were 
rings and Old-World trinkets, when com- 
pared to the living jewel?” Being quite 
of her opinion in this, and loving the ring 
(which had no gem in it) as the token of 
my priceless gem, I resolved to wear it at 
any cost, except when I should be plowing, 
or doing things likely to break it ; although 
I must own that it felt very queer (for I 
never had throttled a finger before), and it 
looked very queer, for a length of time, upon 
my great hard-working hand. 

And before I got used to my ring, or peo- 
ple could think that it belonged to me (plain 
and ungarnished though it was), and before 
I went to see Lorna again, having failed 
to find any necessity, and remembering my 
duty to mother, we all had something else 
to think of, not so pleasant, and more puz- 
zling. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

JOHN RETURNS TO BUSINESS. 

Now November was upon us, and we had 
kept Allhallowmass, with roasting of skew- 
ered apples (like so many shuttlecocks), and 


after that the day of Fawkes, as became 
good Protestants, with merry bonfires and 
burned batatas, and plenty of good feeding 
in honor of our religion ; and then, while we 
were at wheat-sowing, another visitor ar- 
rived. 

This was Master Jeremy Stickles, who had 
been a good friend to me ( as described be- 
fore) in London, and had earned my mother’s 
gratitude, so far as ever he chose to have it. 
And he seemed inclined to have it all ; for 
he made our farm-house his head-quarters, 
and kept us quite at his beck and call, going 
out at any time of the evening, and coming 
back at any time of the morning, and al- 
ways expecting us to be ready, whether 
with horse, or man, or maiden, or fire, or 
provisions. We knew that he was employ- 
ed somehow upon the service of the King, 
and had at different stations certain troop- 
ers and orderlies, quite at his disposal : also 
we knew that he never went out, nor even 
slept in his bedroom, without heavy fire- 
arms well loaded, and a sharp sword nigh at 
hand ; and that he held a great commission, 
under royal signet, requiring all good sub- 
jects, all officers of whatever degree, and 
especially justices of the peace, to aid him to 
the utmost, with person, beast, and chattel, 
or to answer it at their peril. 

Now Master Jeremy Stickles, of course, 
knowing well what women are, durst not 
open to any of them the nature of his in- 
structions. But after a while, perceiving 
that I could be relied upon, and that it was 
a great discomfort not to have me with him, 
he took me aside in a lonely place, and told 
me nearly every thing; having bound me 
first by oath not to impart to any one, with- 
out his own permission, until all was over. 

But at this present time of writing, all is 
over long ago ; ay, and forgotten too, I ween, 
except by those who suffered. Therefore 
may I tell the whole without any breach of 
confidence. Master Stickles was going forth 
upon his usual night journey, when he met 
me coming home, and I said something half 
in jest, about his zeal and secrecy ; upon 
which he looked all round the yard, and led 
me to an open space in the clover-field ad- 
joining. 

“John,” he said, “you have some right to 
know the meaning of all this, being trusted 
as you were by the Lord Chief-justice. But 
he found you scarcely supple enough, neither 
gifted with due brains.” 

“ Thank God for that same,” I answered, 
while he tapped his head, to signify his own 
much larger allowance. Then he made me 
bind myself, which in an evil hour I did, to 
retain his secret; and after that he went on 
solemnly, and with much importance, 

“There be some people fit to plot, and 
others to be plotted against, and others to 
unravel plots, which is the highest gift of 
all. This last hath fallen to my share, and 


122 


LORNA DOONE. 


ti very thankless gift it is, although a rare 
•and choice one. Much of peril, too, attends 
it. Daring courage and great coolness are 
^>s needful for the work as ready wit and 
spotless honor. Therefore His Majesty’s ad- 
visers have chosen me for this high task, 
and they could not have chosen a better 
man. Although you have been in London, 
Jack, much longer than you wished it, you 
are wholly ignorant, of course, in matters of 
state and the public weal.” 

“Well,” said I, “no doubt but I am; and 
all the better for me. Although I heard a 
deal of them ; for every body was talkiug, 
and ready to come to blows, if only it could 
he done without danger. But one said this, 
and one said that ; and they talked so much 
about Birminghams, and Tantivies, and 
Whigs and Tories, and Protestant flails, and 
such like, that I was only too glad to have 
my glass, and clink my spoon for answer.” 

“Right, John; thou art right as usual. 
Let the King go his own gait. He hath too 
many mistresses, to be ever England’s mas- 
ter. Nobody need fear him, for he is not 
like his father: he will have his own way, 
’tis true, but without stopping other folk 
of theirs: and well he knows what women 
are, for he never asks them questions. Now, 
heard you much in London town about the 
Duke of Monmouth ?” 

“ Not so very much,” I answered ; “ not 
half so much as in Devonshire : only that he 
was a hearty man, and a very handsome one, 
and now was banished by the Tories ; and 
most people wished he was coming back, ip- 
stead of the Duke of York, who was trying 
boots in Scotland.” 

“Things are changed since you were in 
town. The Whigs are getting up again, 
through the folly of the Tories in killing 
■poor Lord Russell; and now this Master 
Sidney (if my Lord condemns him) will 
make it worse again. There is much disaf- 
fection everywhere, and it must grow to an 
outbreak. The King hath many troops in 
London, and meaneth to bring more from 
Tangier; but he can not command these 
country places ; and the trained bands can 
not help him much, even if they would. 
Now, do you understand me, John ?” 

“In truth, not I. I see not what Tangier 
hath to do with Exmoor, nor the Duke of 
Monmouth with Jeremy Stickles.” 

“Thou great clod, put it the other way. 
Jeremy Stickles may have much to do about 
the Duke of Monmouth. The Whigs having 
failed of Exclusion, and having been punish- 
ed bitterly for the blood they shed, are ripe 
for any violence. And the turn of the bal- 
ance is now to them. Seesaw is the fash- 
ion of England always ; and the Whigs will 
soon be the top-sawyers.” 

“ But,” said I, still more confused, “ 1 The 
King is the top-sawyer,’ according to our 
proverb. How, then, can the Whigs be ?” 


“ Thou art a hopeless ass, John ; better to 
sew with a chestnut than to teach thee the 
constitution. Let it be so; let it be. I 
have seen a boy of five years old more apt 
at politics than thou. Nay, look not offend- 
ed, lad. It is my fault for being over-deep 
to thee. I should have considered thy in- 
tellect.” 

“ Nay, Master Jeremy, make no apologies. 
It is I that should excuse myself ; but God 
knows I have no politics.” 

“ Stick to that, my lad,” he answered; “so 
shalt thou die easier. Now, in ten words 
(without parties, or trying thy poor brain 
too much), I am here to watch the gather- 
ing of a secret plot, not so much against the 
King as against the due succession.” 

“ Now I understand at last. But, Master 
Stickles, you might have said all that an 
hour ago almost.” 

“ It would have been better, if I had, to 
thee,” lie replied, with much compassion ; 
“ thy hat is nearly off thy head with the 
swelling of brain I have given thee. Blows, 
blows, are thy business, Jack. There thou 
art in thine element. And, haply, this busi- 
ness will bring thee plenty, even for thy 
great head to take. Now hearken to one 
who wishes thee well, and plaiuly sees the 
end of it: stick thou to the winning side, 
and have naught to do with the other one.” 

“ That,” said I, in great haste aud hurry, 
“is the very thing I want to do, if I only 
knew which was the winning side, for the 
sake of Lorna — that is to say, for the sake 
! of my dear mother and sisters, and the farm.” 

“Ha!” cried Jeremy Stickles, laughing at 
the redness of my face — “ Lorna, saidst 
thou ; now, what Lorna ? Is it the name of 
a maiden, or a light-o’-love ?” 

“ Keep to your own business,” I answered, 
very proudly; “spy as much as e’er thou 
wilt, and use our house for doing it, without 
asking leave or telling; but if I ever find 
thee spying into my affairs, all the King’s 
life-guards in London, and the dragoons 
thou bringest hither, shall not save thee 
from my hand — or one finger is enough for 
thee.” 

Being carried beyond myself by his in- 
solence about Lorna, I looked at Master 
Stickles so, and spake in such a voice, that 
all his daring courage and his spotless hon- 
or quailed within him, aud he shrank — as if 
I would strike so small a man ! 

Then I left him, and went to work at the 
sacks upon the corn-floor, to take my evil 
spirit from me before I should see mother. 
For (to tell the truth) now my strength was 
full, and troubles were gathering round me ; 
and people took advantage so much of my 
easy temper sometimes, when I was over- 
tried, a sudden heat ran over me, and a 
glowing of all my muscles, aud a tingling 
for a mighty throw, such as my utmost self- 
command, and fear of hurting any one, could 


LORNA DOONE. 


123 


"but ill refrain. Afterward I was always 
very sadly ashamed of myself, knowing how 
poor a thing bodily strength is, as compared 
with power of mind, and that it is a coward’s 
part to misuse it upon weaker folk. For 
the present, there was a little breach be- 
tween Master Stickles and me, for which I 
blamed myself very sorely. But though, in 
full memory of his kindness and faithfulness 
in London, I asked his pardon many times 
for my foolish anger with him, and offered 
to undergo any penalty he would lay upon 
me, he only said it was no matter, there was 
nothing to forgive. When people say that, 
the truth often is that they can forgive 
nothing. 

So, for the present, a breach was made be- 
tween Master Jeremy and myself, which to 
me seemed no great loss, inasmuch as it re- 
lieved me from any privity to his dealings, 
for which I had small liking. All I feared 
was lest I might in any way be ungrateful to 
him ; but when he would have no more of 
me, what could I do to help it ? However, 
in a few days’ time I was of good service to 
him, as you shall see in its proper place. 

But now my own affairs were thrown into 
such disorder fhat I could think of nothing 
else, and had the greatest difficulty in hid- 
ing my uneasiness. For suddenly, without 
any warning, or a word of message, all my 
Lorna’s signals ceased, which I had been ac- 
customed to watch for daily, and, as it were, 
to feed upon them with a glowing heart. 
The first time I stood on the wooded crest, 
and found no change from yesterday, I could 
hardly believe my eyes, or thought at least 
that it must be some great mistake on the 
part of my love. However, even that op- 
pressed me with a heavy heart, which grew 
heavier, as I found from day to day no token. 

Three times I went and waited long at 
the bottom of the valley, where now the 
stream was brown and angry with the rains 
of autumn, and the weeping trees hung leaf- 
less. But though I waited at every hour of 
day, and far into the night, no light footstep 
came to meet me, no sweet voice was in the 
air; all was lonely, drear, and drenched 
with sodden desolation. It seemed as if my 
love was dead, and the winds were at her 
funeral. 

Once I sought far up the valley, where I 
had never been before, even beyond the copse 
where Lorna had found and lost her brave 
young cousin. Following up the river chan- 
nel, in shelter of the evening fog, I gained a 
corner within stone’s-throw of the last out- 
lying cot. This was a gloomy, low, square 
house, without any light in the windows, 
roughly built of wood and stone, as I saw 
when I drew nearer. For knowing it to be 
Carver’s dwelling (or at least suspecting so, 
from some words of Lorna’s), I was led by 
curiosity, and perhaps by jealousy, to have a 
closer look at it. Therefore, I crept up the 


stream, losing half my sense of fear by rea- 
son of anxiety. And in truth there was not 
much to fear, the sky being now too dark 
for even a shooter of wild fowl to make good 
aim. And nothing else but guns could hurt 
me, as in the pride of my strength I thought, 
and in my skill of single-stick. 

Nevertheless, I went warily, being now al- 
most among this nest of cockatrices. The 
back of Carver’s house abutted on the waves 
of the rushing stream ; and seeing a loop- 
hole, vacant for muskets, I looked in, but all 
was quiet. So far as I could judge by list- 
ening, there was no one now inside, and my 
heart for a moment leaped with joy, for I 
had feared to find Lorna there. Then I 
took a careful survey of the dwelling, and 
its windows, and its door, and aspect, as if 
I had been a robber meaning to make privy 
entrance. It was well for me that I did 
this, as you will find hereafter. 

Having impressed upon my mind (a slow 
but, perhaps, retentive mind) all the bear- 
ings of the place, and all its opportunities, 
and even the curve of the stream along it, 
and the bushes near the door, I was much 
inclined to go farther up, and understand all 
the village. But a bar of red light across 
the river, some forty yards on above me, 
and crossing from the opposite side like a 
chain, prevented me. In that second house 
there was a gathering of loud and merry 
outlaws, making as much noise as if they 
had the law upon their side. Some, indeed, 
as I approached, were laying down both 
right and wrong as purely, and with as 
high a sense, as if they knew the difference. 
Cold and troubled as I was, I could hardly 
keep from laughing. 

Before I betook myself home that night, 
and eased dear mother’s heart so much, and 
made her pale face spread with smiles, I had 
resolved to penetrate Glen Doone from the 
upper end, and learn all about my Lorna. 
Not but what I might have entered from 
my unsuspected channel, as so often I had 
done ; but that I saw fearful need for know- 
ing something more than that. Here was 
every sort of trouble gathering upon me ; 
here was Jeremy Stickles stealing upon ev- 
ery one in the dark ; here was Uncle Reu- 
ben plotting Satan only could tell what ; 
here was a white night-capped man coming 
bodily from the grave ; here was my own sis- 
ter Annie committed to a highwayman, and 
mother in distraction ; most of all — here, 
there, and where — was my Lorna stolen, 
dungeoned, perhaps outraged. It was no 
time for shilly-shally, for the balance of 
this and that, or for a man with blood and 
muscle to pat his nose and ponder. If I left 
my Lorna so ; if I let those black-souled vil- 
lains work their pleasure on my love ; if the 
heart that clave to mine could find no vigor 
in it, then let maidens cease from men, and 
rest their faith in tabby-cats. 


124 


LORNA DOONE. 


Rudely rolling these ideas in my heavy 
head and brain, I resolved to let the mor- 
row put them into form and order, but not 
contradict them. And then, as my consti- 
tution willed (being like that of England), 
I slept, and there was no stopping me. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

A VERY DESPERATE VENTURE. 

That the enterprise now resolved upon 
was far more dangerous than any hitherto 
attempted by me, needs no further proof 
than this : I went and made my will at Por- 
lock, with a middling honest lawyer there ; 
not that I had much to leave, but that none 
could say how far the farm, and all the farm- 
ing stock, might depend on my disposition. 
It makes me smile when I remember how 
particular I was, and how for the life of me 
I was puzzled to bequeath most part of my 
clothes, and hats, and things altogether my 
own, to Lorna, without the shrewd old law- 
yer knowing who she was and where she 
lived. At last, indeed, I flattered myself 
that I had baffled old Tape’s curiosity ; but 
his wrinkled smile, and his speech at part- 
ing, made me again uneasy. 

“A very excellent will, young sir. An 
admirably just and virtuous will ; all your 
effects to your nearest of kin ; filial and fra- 
ternal duty thoroughly exemplified ; noth- 
ing diverted to alien channels, except a small 
token of esteem and reverence to an elderly 
lady, I presume ; and which may or may not 
be valid, or invalid, on the ground of uncer- 
tainty, or the absence of any legal status on 
the part of the legatee. Ha, ha ! Yes, yes ! 
Few young men are so free from exception- 
able entanglements. Two guineas is my 
charge, sir; and a rare good-will for the 
money. Very prudent of you, sir. Does 
you credit in every way. Well, well, we all 
must die; and often the young before the 
old.” 

Not only did I think two guineas a great 
deal too much money for a quarter of 
an hour’s employment, but also I disliked 
particularly the words with which he con- 
cluded ; they sounded, from his grating 
voice, like the evil omen of a croaking ra- 
ven. Nevertheless, I still abode in my fixed 
resolve to go, and find out, if I died for it, 
what was become of Lorna. And herein I 
lay no claim to courage : the matter being 
simply a choice between two evils, of which 
by far the greater one was, of course, to lose 
my darling. 

The journey was a great deal longer to 
fetch around the southern hills, and enter 
by the Doone-gate, than to cross the lower 
land and steal in by the water-slide. How- 
ever, I durst not take a horse (for fear of 
the Doones, who might be abroad upon their 


usual business), but started betimes in the 
evening, so as not to hurry, or waste any 
strength upon the way. And thus I came 
to the robbers’ highway, walking circum- 
spectly, scanning the sky-line of every hill, 
and searching the folds of every valley, for 
any moving figure. 

Although it was now well on toward dark, 
and the sun was down an hour or so, I could 
see the robbers’ road before me, in a trough 
of the winding hills, where the brook plough- 
ed down from the higher barrows, and the 
coving banks were roofed with furze. At 
present there was no one passing, neither 
post nor sentinel, so far as I could descry ; 
but I thought it safer to wait a little, as 
twilight melted into night ; and then I 
crept down a seam of the highland, and 
stood upon the Doone-track. 

As the road approached the entrance, it be- 
came more straight and strong, like a chan- 
nel cut from rock, with the water brawling 
darkly along the naked side of it. Not a 
tree or bush was left, to shelter a man from 
bullets : all was stern, and stiff, and rugged, 
as I could not help perceiving, even through 
the darkness ; and a smell as of church-yard 
mould, a sense of being boxe’d in and coop- 
ed, made me long to be out again. 

And here I was, or seemed to be, particu- 
larly unlucky ; for as I drew near the very 
entrance, lightly of foot, and warily, the 
moon (which had often been my friend) like 
an enemy broke upon me, topping the east- 
ward ridge of rock, and filling all the open 
spaces with the play of wavering light. I 
shrank back into the shadowy quarter on 
the right side of the road, and gloomily em- 
ployed myself to watch the triple entrance, 
on which the moonlight fell askew. 

All across and before the three rude and 
beetling archways hung a felled oak over- 
head, black, and thick, and threatening. 
This, as I heard before, could be let fall in 
a moment, so as to crush a score of men, and 
bar the approach of horses. Behind this 
tree, the rocky mouth was spanned, as by a 
gallery, with brush-wood and piled timber, 
all upon a ledge of stone, where thirty men 
might lurk unseen, and fire at any invader. 
From that rampart it would be impossible 
to dislodge them, because the rock fell sheer 
below them twenty feet, or it may be more ; 
while overhead it towered three hundred, 
and so jutted over that nothing could be 
cast upon them, even if a man could climb 
the height. And the access to this portcul- 
lis place — if I may so call it, being no port- 
cullis there — was through certain rocky 
chambers known to the tenants only. 

But the cleverest of their devices, and the 
most puzzling to an enemy, was that, instead 
of one mouth only, there were three to choose 
from, with nothing to betoken which was the 
proper access ; all being pretty much alike., 
and all unfenced and yawning. And the 


LORNA DOONE. 


125 


common rumor was that in times of any 
danger, when any force was known to he on 
muster in their neighborhood, they changed 
their entrance every day, and diverted the 
other two, by means of sliding-doors, to the 
chasms and dark abysses. 

Now I could see those three rough arches, 
jagged, black, and terrible, and I knew that 
only one of them could lead me to the val- 
ley ; neither gave the river now any farther 
guidance, but dived under-ground with a 
sullen roar, where it met the cross-bar of 
the mountain. Having no means at all of 
judging which was the right way of the 
three, and knowing that the other two 
would lead to almost certain death, in the 
ruggedness and darkness — for how could a 
man, among precipices and bottomless depths 
of water, without a ray of light, have any 
chance to save his life ? — I do declare that 
I was half inclined to go away, and have 
done with it. 

However, I knew one thing for certain, to 
wit, that the longer I staid debating, the 
more would the enterprise pall upon me, and 
the less my relish be. And it struck me 
that, in times of peace, the middle way was 
the likeliest ; and the others diverging right 
and left in their farther parts might be made 
to slide into it (not far from the entrance) 
at the pleasure of the warders. Also I took 
it for good omen that I remembered (as rare- 
ly happened) a very fine line in the Latin 
grammar, whose emphasis and meaning is, 
“middle road is safest.” 

Therefore, without more hesitation, I 
plunged into the middle way, holding a 
long ash staff before me, shodden at the end 
with iron. Presently I was in black dark- 
ness, groping along the wall, and feeling a 
deal more fear than I wished to feel ; espe- 
cially when, upon looking back, I could no 
longer see the light, which I had forsaken. 
Then I stumbled over something hard, and 
sharp, and very cold ; moreover, so grievous 
to my legs that it needed my very best doc- 
trine and humor to forbear from swearing 
in the manner they use in London. But 
when I arose, and felt it, and knew it to be 
a culverin, I was somewhat re-assured there- 
by, inasmuch as it was not likely that they 
would plant this engine except in the real 
and true entrance. 

Therefore I went on again, more painful- 
ly and wearily, and presently found it to be 
good that I had received that knock, and 
borne it with such patience ; for otherwise 
I might have blundered full upon the sen- 
tries, and been shot without more ado. As 
it was, I had barely time to draw back, as I 
turned a corner upon them ; and if their lan- 
tern had been in its place, they could scarce 
have failed to descry me, unless indeed I had 
seen the gleam before I turned the corner. 

There seemed to be only two of them, of 
size indeed and stature as all the Doones 


must be ; but I need not have feared to em 
counter them both, had they been unarmed, 
as I was. It was plain, however, that each 
had a long and heavy carbine, not in his 
hands (as it should have been), but stand- 
ing close beside him. Therefore it behooved 
me now to be exceeding careful ; and even 
that might scarce avail, without luck in pro- 
portion. So I kept well back at the cor- 
ner, and laid one cheek Jo the rock face, and 
kept my outer eye round the jut in the wa- 
riest mode I could compass, watching my 
opportunity : and this is what I saw. 

The two villains looked very happy — 
which villains have no right to be, but oft- 
en are, meseemeth — they were sitting in a 
niche of rock, with the lantern in the cor- 
ner, quaffing something from glass measures, 
and playing at push-pin, or shepherd’s chess, 
or basset, or some trivial game of that sort. 
Each was smoking a long clay pipe, quite 
of new London shape, I could see, for the 
shadow was thrown out clearly ; and each 
would laugh from time to time, as he fan- 
cied he got the better of it. One was sit- 
ting with his knees up, and left hand on his 
thigh ; and this one had his back to me, and 
seemed to be the stouter. The other lean- 
ed more against the rock, half sitting and 
half astraddle, and wearing leathern over- 
alls, as if newly come from riding. I could 
see his face quite clearly by the light of the 
open lantern, and a handsomer or a bolder 
face I had seldom, if ever, set eyes upon ; in- 
somuch that it made me very unhappy to 
think of his being so near my Lorna. 

“ How long am I to stay crouching here ?” 
I asked of myself at last, being tired of 
hearing them cry, “ score one,” “ score two,” 

“No, by , Charlie ;” “By , I say it 

is, Phelps.” And yet my only chance of 
slipping by them unperceived was to wait 
till they quarreled more, and came to blows 
about it. Presently, as I made up my mind 
to steal along toward them (for the cavern 
was pretty wide just there), Charlie, or 
Charleworth Doone, the younger and taller 
man, reached forth his hand to seize the 
money, which he swore he had won that 
time. Upon this, the other jerked his arm, 
vowing that he had no right to it ; where- 
upon Charlie flung at his face the contents 
of the glass he was sipping, but missed him 
and hit the candle, which sputtered with a 
flare of blue flame (from the strength, per- 
haps, of the spirit), and then went out com- 
pletely. At this, one swore and the other 
laughed ; and before they had settled what 
to do, I was past them and round the corner. 

And then, like a giddy fool as I was, I 
needs must give them a startler — the whoop 
of an owl, done so exactly, as John Fry had 
taught me, and echoed by the roof so fear- 
fully, that one of them dropped the tinder- 
box, and the other caught up his gun and 
cocked it — at least as I judged by the sounds 


126 


LORNA DOONE. 


they made. And then, too late, I knew my 
madness ; for if either of them had fired, no 
doukt but what all the village would have 
risen and rushed upon me. However, as the 
luck of the matter went, it proved for my 
advantage ; for I heard one say to the other, 

“Curse it, Charlie, what was that? It 
scared me so, I have dropped my box ; my 
flint is gone, and every thing. Will the 
brimstone catch from your pipe, my lad ?” 

“My pipe is out, Phelps, ever so long. 
D — n it, I am not afraid of an owl, man. 
Give me the lantern, and stay here. Pm not 
half done with you yet, my friend.” 

“ Well said, my boy, well said ! Go straight 
to Carver’s, mind you. The other sleepy- 
heads be snoring, as there is nothing up to- 
night. No dallying now under Captain’s 
Window. Queen will have naught to say 
to you, and Carver will punch your head 
into a new wick for your lantern.” 

“Will he, though? Two can play at 
that.” And so, after some rude jests and 
laughter, and a few more oaths, I heard 
Charlie (or at any rate somebody) coming 
toward me, with a loose and not too sober 
footfall. As he reeled a little in his gait, 
and I would not move from his way one 
inch, after his talk of Lorna, but only long- 
ed to grasp him (if common sense permitted 
it), his braided coat came against my thumb, 
and his leathern gaiters brushed my knee. 
If he had turned or noticed it, he would 
have been a dead man in a moment ; but his 
drunkenness saved him. 

So I let him reel on unharmed ; and there- 
upon it occurred to me that I could have no 
better guide, passing as he would exactly 
where I wished to be — that is to say, under 
Lorna’s window. Therefore I followed him, 
without any especial caution ; and soon I 
had the pleasure of seeing his form against 
the moonlit sky. Dowu a steep and wind- 
ing path, with a hand-rail at the corners 
(such as they have at Ilfracombe), Master 
Charlie tripped along — and indeed there 
was much tripping, and he must have been 
an active fellow to recover as he did — and 
after him walked I, much hoping (for his 
own poor sake) that he might not turn and 
espy me. 

But Bacchus (of whom I read at school, 
with great wonder about his meaning — and 
the same I may say of Venus) that great 
deity preserved Charlie, his pious worshiper, 
from regarding consequences. So he led me 
very kiudly to the top of the meadow-land, 
where the stream from underground broke 
forth, seething quietly with a little hiss of 
bubbles. Hence I had fair view and outline 
of the robbers’ township, spread with bushes 
here and there, but not heavily overshadow- 
ed. The moon, approaching now the full, 
brought the forms in manner forth, clothing 
each with character, as the moon (more than 
the sun) does to an eye accustomed. 


I knew that the Captain’s house was first f 
both from what Lorna had said of it, and 
from my mother’s description, and now again 
from seeing Charlie halt there for a certain 
time, and whistle on his fingers, and hurry 
on, fearing consequence. The tune that he 
whistled was strange to me, and lingered in 
my ears, as having something very new and 
striking, and fantastic in it. And I repeat- 
ed it softly to myself, while I marked the 
position of the houses and the beauty of 
the village. For the stream, in lieu of any 
street, passing between the houses, and af- 
fording perpetual change, and twinkling, 
and reflections — moreover, by its sleepy- 
murmur, soothing all the dwellers there — 
this, and the snugness of the position, wall- 
ed with rock and spread with herbage, made 
it look, in the quiet moonlight, like a little 
paradise. And to think of all the inmates 
there sleeping with good consciences, having 
plied their useful trade of making other’s 
work for them, enjoying life without much 
labor, yet with great renown ! 

Master Charlie went down the village,, 
and I followed him carefully, keeping as 
much*as possible in the shadowy places, and 
watching the windows of every house, lest 
any light should be burning. As I passed. 
Sir Ensor’s house, my heart leaped up, for I 
spied a window, higher than the rest above 
the ground, and with a faint light moving. 
This could hardly fail to be the room where- 
in my darling lay; for here that impudent 
young fellow had gazed while he was whis- 
tling. And here my courage grew tenfold, 
and my spirit feared no evil ; for lo, if Lor- 
na had been surrendered to that scoundrel 
Carver, she would not have been at her 
grandfather’s house, but in Carver’s accursed 
dwelling. 

Warm with this idea, I hurried after 
Charleworth Doone, being resolved not to 
harm him now, unless my own life required 
it. And while I watched from behind a 
tree, the door of the farthest house was open- 
ed ; and, sure enough, it was Carver’s self, 
who stood bareheaded, and half undressed, 
in the door-way. I could see his great black 
chest and arms, by the light of the lamp he 
bore. 

“ Who wants me this time of night ?” lie 
grumbled, in a deep gruff voice ; “ any young 
scamp prowling after the maids shall have 
sore bones for his trouble.” 

“All the fair maids are for thee, are they, 
Master Carver?” Charlie answered, laugh- 
ing ; “ we young scamps must be well con- 
tent with coarser stuff than thou wouldst 
have.” 

“ Would have ? Ay, and will have,” the 
great beast muttered, angrily. “ I bide my 
time; but not very long. Only one word 
for thy good, Charlie. I will fling thee sense- 
less into the river, if ever I catch thy girl- 
face there again.” 


LORNA DOONE. 


122 


“Mayhap, Master Carver, it is more than 
thou couldst do. But I will not keep thee ; 
thou art not pleasaut company to-night. 
All I want is a light for my lantern, and a 
glass of schnapps, if thou hast it.” 

“ What is become of thy light, then ? 
Good for thee I am not on duty.” 

“A great owl flew between me and Phelps 
as we watched beside the culverin, and so 
scared was he at our fierce bright eyes that 
he fell and knocked the light out.” 

“Likely tale, or likely lie, Charles! We 
will have the truth to-morrow. Here, take 
thy light, and be gone with thee. All virtu- 
ous men are in bed now.” 

“Then so will I be; and why art thou 
not? Ha! have I earned my schnapps 
now ?” 

“ If thou hast, thou hast paid a bad debt : 
there is too much in thee already. Be off ! 
my patience is done with.” 

Then he slammed the door in the young 
man’s face, having kindled his lantern by this 
time ; and Charlie went up to the watch- 
place again, muttering, as he passed me, 
“ Bad lookout for all of us when that sur- 
ly old beast is Captain. No gentle blood in 
him, no hospitality, not even pleasant lan- 
guage, nor a good new oath in his frowzy 
pate ! I’ve a mind to cut the whole of it ; 
and but for the girls I would so.” 

My heart was in my mouth, as they say, 
when I stood in the shade by Lorna’s win- 
dow, and whispered her name gently. The 
house was of one story only, as the others 
were, with pine -ends standing forth the 
stone, and only two rough windows upon 
that western side of it, and perhaps both of 
them were Lorna’s. The Doones had been 
their own builders, for no one should know 
their ins and outs ; and of course their work 
was clumsy. As for their windows, they 
stole them mostly from the houses round 
about. But though the window was not 
very close, I might have whispered long 
enough before she would have answered 
me, frightened as she was, no doubt, by 
many a rude overture. And I durst not 
speak aloud, because I saw another watch- 
man posted on the western cliff, and com- 
manding all the valley. And now this man 
(having no companion for drinking or for 
gambling) espied me against the wall of the 
house, and advanced to the brink, and chal- 
lenged rue. 

“ Who are you there ? Answer ! One, 
two, three ; and I fire at thee.” 

The nozzle of his gun was pointed full 
upon me, as I could see, with the moonlight 
striking on the barrel ; he was not more 
than fifty yards off, and now he began to 
reckon. Being almost desperate about it, 
I began to whistle, wondering how far I 
should get before I lost my windpipe; and 
as luck would have it, my lips fell into that 
strange tune I had practiced last; the one 


I had heard from Charlie. My mouth would 
scarcely frame the notes, being parched with 
terror ; but to my surprise, the man fell back, 
dropped his gun, and saluted. Oh, sweetest 
of all sweet melodies ! 

That tune was Carver Doone’s passport 
(as I heard long afterward), which Cbarle- 
worth Doone had imitated, for decoy of Lor- 
na. The sentinel took me for that vile Car- 
ver, who was like enough to be prowling 
there, for private talk with Lorna, but not 
very likely to shout forth liis name, if it 
might be avoided. The watchman, perceiv- 
ing the danger, perhaps, of intruding on 
Carver’s privacy, not only retired along the 
cliff, but withdrew himself to good distance. 

Meanwhile he had done me the kindest 
service ; for Lorna came to the window at 
once to see what the cause of the shout was, 
and drew back the curtain timidly. Then 
she opened the rough lattice ; and then she 
watched the cliff and trees ; and then she 
sighed very sadly. 

“ Oh, Lorna, don’t you know me ?” I whis- 
pered from the side, being afraid of startling 
her by appearing over-suddenly. 

Quick though she always was of thought, 
she knew me not from my whisper, and was 
shutting the window hastily, when I caught 
it back, and showed myself. 

“John !” she cried, yet with sense enough 
not to speak aloud ; “ oh, you must be mad, 
John !” 

“As mad as a March hare,” said I, “with- 
out any news of my darling. You knew I 
would come — of course you did.” 

“Well, I thought, perhaps — you know: 
now, John, you need not eat my hand. Do 
you see they have put iron bars across ?” 

“ To be sure. Do you think I should be 
contented, even with this lovely hand, but 
for these vile iron bars. I -will have them 
out before I go. Now, darling, for one mo- 
ment — just the other hand, for a change, 
you know.” 

So I got the other, but was not honest ; 
for I kept them both, and felt their delicate 
beauty trembling, as I laid them to my heart. 

“ Oh, John, you will make me cry direct- 
ly ” — she had been crying long ago — “ if you 
go on in that way. You know we can never 
have one another; every one is against it. 
Why should I make you miserable ? Try 
not to think of me any more.” 

“And will you try the same of me, Lor- 
na ?” 

“ Oh yes, John ; if you agree to it. At 
least I will try to try it.” 

“Then you won’t try any thing of the 
sort,” I cried, with great enthusiasm, for her 
tone was so nice and melancholy : “ the only 
thing we will try to try, is to belong to one 
another. And if we do our best, Lorna, God 
alone can prevent us.” 

She crossed herself, with one hand drawn 
free, as I spoke so boldly; and something 


128 


LORNA DOONE. 


swelled in her little throat, and prevented 
her from answering. 

“ Now tell me,” I said ; “ what means all 
this ? Why are you so pent up here ? Why 
have you given me no token? Has your 
grandfather turned against you ? Are you 
in any danger ?’ ’ 

“ My poor grandfather is very ill : I fear 
that he will not live long. The Counselor 
and his son are now the masters of the valley ; 
and I dare not venture forth, for fear of any 
thing they might do to me. When I went 
forth to signal for you, Carver tried to seize 
me ; but I was too quick for him. Little 
Gwenny is not allowed to leave the valley 
now ; so that I could send no message. I 
have been so wretched, dear, lest you should 
think me false to you. The tyrants now 
make sure of me. You must watch this 
house both night and day, if you wish to 
save me. There is nothing they would 
shrink from, if my poor grandfather — oh, I 
can not bear to think of myself, when I 
ought to think of him only ; dying without 
a son to tend him, or a daughter to shed a 
tear.” 

“But surely he has sons enough; and a 
deal too many,” I was going to say, but 
stopped myself in time : “ why do none of 
them come to him ?” 

“I know not. I can not tell. He is a 
very strange old man ; and few have ever 
loved him. He was black with wrath at 
the Counselor this very afternoon — but I 
must not keep you here — you are much too 
brave, John ; and I am much too selfish : 
there, what was that shadow ?” 

“Nothing more than a bat, darling, come 
to look for his sweetheart. I will not stay 
long ; you tremble so : and yet for that very 
reason, how can I leave you, Lorna?” 

“You must — you must,” she answered; 
“I shall die if they hurt you. I hear the 
old nurse moving. Grandfather is sure to 
send for me. Keep back from the window.” 

However, it was only Gwenny Carfax, 
Lorna’s little handmaid : my darling brought 
her to the window and presented her to me, 
almost, laughing through her grief. 

“Oh, I am so glad, John; Gwenny, I am 
so glad you came. I have wanted long to 
introduce you to my ‘young man,’ as you 
call him. It is rather dark, but you can see 
him. I wish you to know him again, Gwen- 
ny.” 

“ Whoy !” cried Gwenny, with great amaze- 
ment, standing on tiptoe to look out, and 
staring as if she were weighing me; “her 
be bigger nor any Dooue ! Heared as her 
have bate our Carnish champion a-wrastliug. 
’Twadn’t fair play nohow: no, no; don’t tell 
me, ’twadn’t fair play nohow.” 

“ True enough, Gwenny,” I answered her ; 
for the play had been very unfair indeed on 
the side of the Bodmin champion ; “ it was 
not a fair bout, little maid ; I am free to ac- 


knowledge that.” By that answer, or rath- 
er by the construction she put upon it, the 
heart of the Cornish girl was won more than 
by gold and silver. 

“ I shall knoo thee again, young man ; no 
fear of that,” she answered, nodding with 
an air of patronage. “ Now, missis, gae on 
coortin’, and I will gae outside and watch 
for ’ee.” Though expressed not over-deli- 
cately, this proposal arose, no doubt, from 
Gwenny’s sense of delicacy ; and I was very 
thankful to her for taking her departure. 

“ She is the best little thing in the world,” 
said Lorna, softly laughing, “ and the queer- 
est, and the truest. Nothing will bribe her 
against me. If she seems to be on the other 
side, never, never doubt her. Now no more 
of your 1 coortin’,’ John ! I love you far too 
well for that. Yes, yes, ever so much! If 
you will take a mean advantage of me — as 
much as ever you like to imagine ; and then 
you may double it, after that. Only go, do 
go, good John ; kind, dear, darling John ; if 
you love me, go.” 

“How can I go without settling any 
thing ?” I asked, very sensibly. “ How shall 
I know of your danger now? Hit upon 
something; you are so quick. Any thing 
yon can think of; and then I will go, and 
not frighten you.” 

“ I have been thinking long of something,” 
Lorna answered rapidly, with that peculiar 
clearness of voice, which made every sylla- 
ble ring like music of a several note. “ You 
see that tree with the seven rooks’ nests, 
bright against the cliffs there ? Can you 
count them from above, do you think ? 
From a place where you would be safe, 
dear — ” 

“ No doubt I can ; or, if I can not, it will 
not take me long to find a spot whence I 
can do it.” 

“Gwenny can climb like any cat. She 
has been up there in the summer, watching 
the young birds, day by day, and daring the 
boys to touch them. There are neither birds 
nor eggs there now, of course, and nothing 
doing. If you see but six rooks’ nests, I am 
in peril, and want you. If you see but five, 
I am carried off by Carver.” 

“ Good God !” said I, at the mere idea, in a 
tone which frightened Lorna. 

“Fear not, John,” she whispered sadly, 
and my blood grew cold at it ; “I have means 
to stop him, or at least to save myself. If 
you can come within one day of that man’s 
getting hold of me, you will find me quite 
unharmed. After that you will find me 
dead, or alive, according to circumstances, 
but in no case such that you need blush to 
look at me.” 

Her dear sweet face was full of pride, as 
even in the gloom I saw ; and I would not 
trespass on her feelings by such a thing, at 
such a moment, as an attempt at any caress. 
I only said, “ God bless you, darling !” and 


LORNA DOONE. 


129 


she said the same to me, in a very low, sad 
voice. And then I stole below Carver’s 
house in the shadow from the eastern cliff ; 
and knowing enough of the village now to 
satisfy all necessity, betook myself to my 
well-known track in returning from the val- 
ley, which was neither down the water-slide 
(a course I feared in the darkness), nor up 
the cliffs at Lorna’s bower, hut a way of my 
own inventing, which there is no need to 
dwell upon. 

A weight of care was off my mind, though 
much of trouble hung there still. One thing 
was quite certain — if Lorna could not have 
John Ridd, no one else should have her. 
And my mother, who sat up for me, and 
with me long time afterward, agreed that 
this was comfort. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

A GOOD TURN FOR JEREMY. 

John Fry had now six shillings a week, 
•of regular and permanent wage, besides all 
harvest and shearing money, as well as a 
cottage rent free, and enough of garden- 
ground to rear pot-herbs for his wife and 
all his family. Now the wages appointed 
by our justices, at the time of sessions, were 
four-and-sixpence a week for summer, and a 
shilling less for the winter - time ; and we 
could be fined, and perhaps imprisoned, for 
giving more than the sums so fixed. There- 
fore John Fry was looked upon as the rich- 
est man upon Exmoor — I mean, of course, 
among laborers — and there were many jokes 
about robbing him, as if he were the Mint 
of the King ; and Tom Faggus promised to 
try his hand, if he came across John on the 
highway, although he had ceased from busi- 
ness, and was seeking a Royal pardon. 

Now is it according to human nature, or 
is it a thing contradictory (as I would fain 
believe) ? But anyhow there was, upon Ex- 
moor, no more discontented man, no man 
more sure that he had not his worth, neither 
half so sore about it, than, or as, John Fry 
was. And one thing he did which I could 
not wholly (or indeed I may say, in any 
measure) reconcile with my sense of right, 
much as I labored to do John justice, es- 
pecially because of his roguery ; and this 
was, that if we said too much, or accused 
him at all of laziness (which he must have 
known to be in him), he regularly turned 
round upon us, and quite compelled us to 
hold our tongues, by threatening to lay in- 
formation against us for paying him too 
much wages ! 

Now I have not mentioned all this of John 
Fry from any disrespect for his memory 
(which is green and honest among us), far 
less from any desire to hurt the feeling of 
his grandchildren ; and I will do them the 
9 


justice, once for all, to avow, thus public- 
ly, that I have known a great many bigger 
rogues, and most of themselves in the num- 
ber. But I have referred with moderation 
to this little flaw in a worthy character (or 
foible, as we call it, when a man is dead) for 
this reason only — that without it there was 
no explaining John’s dealings with Jeremy 
Stickles. 

Master Jeremy, being full of London and 
Norwich experience, fell into the error of 
supposing that we clods and yokels were 
the simplest of the simple, and could be 
cheated at his good pleasure. Now this is 
not so ; when once we suspect that people 
have that idea of us, we indulge them in it 
to the top of their bent, and grieve that they 
should come out of it, as they do at last in. 
amazement, with less money than before, 
and the laugh now set against them. 

Ever since I had offended Jeremy by 
threatening him (as before related) in case 
of his meddling with my affairs, he had more 
and more allied himself with simple-minded 
John, as he was pleased to call him. John 
Fry was every thing : it was “ run and fetch 
my horse, John” — “John, are my pistols 
primed well ?” — “ I want you in the stable, 
John, about something very particular;” 
until, except for the rudeness of it, I was 
longing to tell Master Stickles that he ought 
to pay John’s wages. John, for his part, 
was not backward, but gave himself the 
most wonderful airs of secrecy and impor- 
tance, till half the parish begau to think that 
the affairs of the nation were in his hand, 
and he scorned the sight of a dung-fork. 

It was not likely that this should last; 
and being the only man in the parish with 
any knowledge of politics, I gave John Fry 
to understand that he must not presume to 
talk so freely, as if he were at least a con- 
stable, about the constitution, which could 
be no affair of his, and might bring us all into 
trouble. At this he only tossed his nose, as 
if he had been in London at least three times 
for my one ; which vexed me so that I prom- 
ised him the thick end of the plow-whip, 
if even the name of a knight of the shire 
should pass his lips for a fortnight. 

Now I did not suspect in my stupid nod- 
dle that John Fry would ever tell Jeremy 
Stickles about the sight at the Wizard’s 
Slough and the man in the white night-cap, 
because John had sworn on the blade of his 
knife not to breathe a word to any soul 
without my full permission. However, it 
appears that John related, for a certain con- 
sideration, all that he had seen, and doubt- 
less more which had accrued to it. Upon 
this Master Stickles was much astonished at 
Uncle Reuben’s proceedings, having always 
accounted him a most loyal, keen, and wary 
subject. 

All this I learned upon recovering Jere- 
my’s good graces, which came to pass in no 


130 


LORNA DOONE. 


other way than by the saving of his life. 
Being bound to keep the strictest watch 
upon the seven rooks’ nests, and yet not 
bearing to be idle and to waste my mother’s 
stores, I contrived to keep my work entire- 
ly at the western corner of our farm, which 
was nearest to Glen Doone, and whence I 
could easily run to a height commanding 
the view I coveted. 

One day Squire Faggus had dropped in 
upon us, just in time for dinner; and very 
soon he and King’s messenger were as thick 
as need be. Tom had brought his beloved 
mare to show her off to Annie, and he 
mounted his pretty sweetheart upon her, 
after giving Winnie notice to be on her very 
best behavior. The squire was in great spir- 
its, having just accomplished a purchase of 
land which was worth ten times what he 
gave for it ; and this he did by a merry trick 
upon old Sir Roger Bassett, who never sup- 
posed him to be in earnest, as not possess- 
ing the money. The whole thing was done 
on a bumper of claret in a tavern where 
they met ; and the old knight having once 
pledged his word, no lawyers could hold him 
back from it. They could only say that 
Master Faggus, being attainted of felony, 
was not a capable grantee. “I will soon 
cure that,” quoth Tom; “my pardon has 
been ready for months and months, so soon 
as I care to sue it.” 

And now he was telling our Annie, who 
listened very rosily, and believed every word 
he said, that, having been ruined in early 
innocence by the means of lawyers, it was 
only just, and fair turn for turn, that, having 
become a match for them by long practice 
upon the highway, he should reinstate him- 
self, at their expense, in society. And now 
he would go to London at once, and sue out 
his pardon ; and then would his lovely dar- 
ling Annie, etc., etc. — things which I had 
no right to hear, and in which I was not 
wanted. 

Therefore I strode away up the lane to 
my afternoon’s employment, sadly compar- 
ing my love with theirs (which now appear- 
ed so prosperous), yet heartily glad for 
Annie’s sake; only remembering now and 
then the old proverb, “ Wrong never comes 
right.” 

I worked very hard in the copse of young 
ash, with my bill-hook and a shearing-knife ; 
cutting out the saplings where they stooled 
too close together, making spars to keep for 
I thatching, wall-crooks to drive into the cob, 
stiles for close sheep - hurdles, and handles 
for rakes, and hoes, and two -bills, of the 
larger and straighter stuff. And all the 
lesser I bound in fagots, to come home on 
the sledge to the wood-rick. It is not to be 
supposed that I did all this work without 
many peeps at the seven rooks’ nests, which 
proved my Lorna’s safety. Indeed, when- 
ever I wanted a change, either from cleav- 


ing, or hewing too hard, or stooping co/> 
much at binding, I was up and away to the 
ridge of the hill, instead of standing and do- 
ing nothing. 

Soon I forgot about Tom and Annie, and 
fell to thinking of Lorna only, and how 
much I would make of her, and what I 
should call our children, and how I would 
educate them, to do honor to her rank ; yet 
all the time I worked none the worse by 
reason of meditation. Fresh-cut spars are 
not so good as those of a little seasoning, 
especially if the sap was not gone down at 
the time of cutting. Therefore we always 
find it needful to have plenty still in stock. 

It was very pleasant there in the copse, 
sloping to the west, as it was, and the sun 
descending brightly, with rocks and banks 
to dwell upon. The stems of mottled and 
dimpled wood, with twigs coming out like 
elbows, hung and clung together closely, 
with a mode of bending in, as children do 
at some danger; overhead the shrunken 
leaves quivered and rustled ripely, having 
many points like stars, and rising and fall- 
ing delicately, as fingers play sad music- 
! Along the bed of the slanting ground, all 
between the stools of wood, there were heaps 
of dead brown leaves, and sheltered mats of 
lichen, and drifts of spotted stick gone rot- 
ten, and tufts of rushes here and there, full 
of fray and feathering. 

All by the hedge ran a little stream, & 
thing that could barely name itself, flowing 
scarce more than a pint in a minute, be- 
cause of the sunny weather. Yet had this 
rill little crooks and crannies dark and. 
bravely bearded, and a gallant rush through 
a reeden pipe — the stem of a flag that was 
grounded ; and here and there divided 
threads, from the points of a branching 
stick, into mighty pools of rock (as large as 
a grown man’s hat almost) napped with 
moss all around the sides and hung with 
corded grasses. Along and down the tiny 
banks, and nodding into one another, even 
across main channel, hung the brown ar- 
cade of ferns ; some with gold tongues lan- 
guishing; some with countless ear-drops 
jerking; some with great quilled ribs up- 
rising and long saws a-flapping ; others cup- 
ped, and fanning over with the grace of 
yielding, even as a hollow fountain spread 
by winds that have lost their way. 

Deeply each beyond other, pluming, stoop- 
ing, glancing, glistening, weaving softest 
pillow-lace, coying to the wind and water,, 
where their fleeting image danced, or by 
which their beauty moved — God has mad© 
no lovelier thing, and only he takes heed of 
them. 

It was time to go home to supper now, 
and I felt very friendly toward it, having 
been hard at work for some hours, with only 
the voice of the little rill, and some hares 
and a pheasant for company. The sun was 


LORNA DOONE. 


131 


gone down behind the black wood on the 
farther cliffs of Bagworthy, and the russet 
of the tufts and spear -beds was becoming 
gray, while the grayness of the sapling ash 
grew brown against the sky; the hollow 
curves of the little stream became black 
beneath the grasses and the fairy fans innu- 
merable ; while outside the hedge our clover 
was crimping its leaves in the dew-fall, like 
the cocked hats of wood-sorrel, when, thank- 
ing God for all this scene, because my love 
had gifted me with the key to all things 
lovely, I prepared to follow their example, 
and to rest from labor. 

Therefore I wiped my bill-hook and shear- 
ing-knife very carefully, for I hate to leave 
tools dirty, and was doubting whether I 
should try for another glance at the seven 
rooks’ nests, or whether it would be too 
dark for it. It was now a quarter of an 
hour mayhap since I had made any chop- 
ping noise, because I had been assorting my 
spars, and tying them in bundles, instead of 
plying the bill-hook ; and the gentle tinkle 
of the stream was louder than my doings. 
To this, no doubt, I owe my life, which then 
(without my dreaming it) was in no little 
jeopardy. 

For, just as I was twisting the bine of 
my very last fagot, before tucking the cleft 
tongue under, there came three men outside 
the hedge, where the western light was yel- 
low ; and by it I could see that all three of 
them carried fire-arms. These men were 
not walking carelessly, but following down 
the hedge-trough, as if to stalk some enemy ; 
ancUfor a moment it struck me cold to think 
it was I they were looking for. With the 
swiftness of terror I concluded that my vis- 
its to Glen Doone were known, and now my 
life was the forfeit. 

It was a most lucky thing for me that I 
heard their clothes catch in the brambles, 
and saw their hats under the rampart of 
ash, which is made by what we call “ splash- 
ing,” and lucky for me that I stood in a goyal, 
and had the dark coppice behind me. To 
this I had no time to fly, but with a sort 
of instinct threw myself flat in among the 
thick fern and held my breath, and lay still 
as a log. For I had seen the light gleam 
on their gun-barrels, and knowing the faults 
of the neighborhood, would fain avoid swell- 
ing their number. Then the three men came 
to the gap in the hedge where I had been in 
and out so often, and stood up and looked in 
over. 

It is all very well for a man to boast that, 
in all his life, he has never been frighten- 
ed, and believes that he never could be so. 
There may be men of that nature — I will 
not dare to deny it ; only I have never 
known them. The fright I was now in was 
horrible, and all my bones seemed to creep 
inside me; when lying there helpless, with 
only a billet and the comb of fern to hide 


me, in the dusk of early evening, I saw three 
faces in the gap ; and, what was worse, three 
gun-muzzles. 

“ Somebody been at work here — ” it was 
the deep voice of Carver Doone ; “jump up, 
Charley, and look about ; we must have no 
witnesses.” 

“Give me a hand behind,” said Charley, 
the same handsome young Doone I had seen 
that night ; “ this bank is too devilish steep 
for me.” 

“ Nonsense, man !” cried Marwood de 
Whichehalse, who, to my amazement, was 
the third of the number; “only a hind 
cutting fagots ; and of course he hath gone 
home long ago. Blind man’s holiday, as we 
call it. I can see all over the place; and 
there is not even a rabbit there.” 

At that I drew my breath again, and 
thanked God I had gotten my coat on. 

“ Squire is right,” said Charlie, who was 
standing up high (on a root, perhaps), “ there 
is nobody there now, captain ; and lucky for 
the poor devil that he keepeth workman’s 
hours. Even his chopper is gone, I see.” 

“No dog, no man, is the rule about here, 
when it comes to coppice-work,” continued 
young De Whichehalse ; “ there is not a man 
would dare work there, without a dog to 
scare the pixies.” 

“There is a big young fellow upon this 
farm,” Carver Doone muttered sulkily, “ with 
whom I have an account to settle, if ever 
I come across him. He hath a cursed spite 
to us, because we shot his father. He was 
going to bring the lumpers upon us, only he 
was afeared, last winter. And he hath been 
in London lately, for some traitorous job, I 
doubt.” 

“ Oh, you mean that fool, John Ridd,” an- 
swered the young squire ; “ a very simple 
clod-hopper. No treachery in him, I war- 
rant ; he hath not the head for it. All he 
cares about is wrestling. As strong as a 
bull, and with no more brains.” 

“ A bullet for that bull,” said Carver ; 
and I could see the grin on his scornful 
face ; “ a bullet for ballast to his brain, the 
first time I come across him.” 

“ Nonsense, captain ! I won’t have him 
shot, for he is my old school - fellow, and 
hath a very pretty sister. But his cousin 
is of a different mould, and ten times as 
dangerous.” 

“We shall see, lads, we shall see,” grum- 
bled the great black - bearded man. “Ill 
bodes for the fool that would hinder me. 
But come, let us onward. No lingering, or 
the viper will be in the bush from us. Body 
and soul, if he gives us the slip, both of you 
shall answer it.” 

“ No fear, captain, and no hurry,” Charlie 
answered, gallantly ; “ would I were as sure 
of living a twelvemonth as he is of dying 
within the hour ! Extreme unction for him 
in my bullet-patch. Remember, I claim to 


132 


LORNA DOONE. 


be his confessor, because he hath insulted 
me.” 

“ Thou art welcome to the job for me,” 
said Marwood, as they turned away and 
kept along the hedge-row ; “ I love to meet 
a man sword to sword, not to pop at him 
from a fox-hole.” 

What answer was made I could not hear, 
for by this time the stout ashen hedge was 
between us, and no other gap to be found in 
it, until at the very bottom, where the cor- 
ner of the copse was. Yet I was not quit of 
danger now ; for they might come through 
that second gap, and then would be sure to 
see me, unless I crept into the uncut thicket 
before they could enter the clearing. But 
in spite of all my fear, I was not wise enough 
to do that. And in truth the words of Car- 
ver Doone had filled me with such anger, 
knowing what I did about him and his pre- 
tense to Lorna; and the sight of Squire 
Marwood iu such outrageous company had 
so moved my curiosity, and their threats 
against some unknown person so aroused 
my pity, that much of my prudence was for- 
gotten, or at least the better part of cour- 
age, which loves danger at long distance. 

Therefore, holding fast my bill -hook, I 
dropped myself very quietly into the bed of 
the runnel, being resolved to take my chance 
of their entrance at the corner where the 
water dived through the hedge-row. And 
so I followed them down the fence as gently 
as a rabbit goes, only I was inside it, and 
they on the outside ; but yet so near that I 
heard the branches rustle as they pushed 
them. 

Perhaps I had never loved ferns so much 
as when I came to the end of that little gully, 
and stooped betwixt two patches of them, 
now my chiefest shelter ; for cattle had been 
through the gap just there, in quest of fod- 
der and coolness, and had left but a mound 
of trodden earth between me and the out- 
laws. I mean at least on my left hand (upon 
which side they were), for in front, where 
the brook ran out of the copse, was a good 
stiff hedge of holly. Aud now I prayed 
Heaven to lead them straight on ; for if they 
once turned to their right through the gap, 
the muzzles of their guns would come al- 
most against my forehead. 

I heard them — for I durst not look, and 
could scarce keep still, for trembling — I 
heard them trampling outside the gap, un- 
certain which track they should follow. 
And in that fearful moment, wfith my soul 
almost looking out of my body, expecting 
notice to quit it, what do you think I did ? 
I counted the threads in a spider’s web, and 
the flies he had lately eaten, as their skele- 
tons shook in the twilight. 

“We shall see him better in there,” said 
Carver, in his horrible gruff voice, like the 
creaking of the gallows chain ; “ sit there 
behind holly hedge, lads, while he cometh 


down yonder hill ; and then our good-even- 
ing to him; one at his body, and two at his 
head ; aud good aim, lest we balk the devil.” 

“ I tell you, captain, that will not do,” 
said Charlie, almost whispering : “ you are 
very proud of your skill, we know, and can 
hit a lark if you see it: but he may not 
come until after dark, and we can not be 
too nigh to him. This holly hedge is too 
far away. He crosses down here from Slo- 
combslade, not from Tibbacot, I tell you ; 
but along that track to the left there, and 
so by the foreland to Glenthorne, where his 
boat is in the cove. Do you think I have 
tracked him so many evenings, without 
knowing his line to a hair ? Will you fool 
away all my trouble ?” 

“Come, then, lad; we will follow thy 
lead. Thy life for his, if we fail of it.” 

“'After me, then, right into the hollow; 
thy legs are growing stiff, captain.” 

“ So shall thy body be, young man, if thou 
leadest me astray in this.” 

I heard them stumbling down the hill, 
which was steep and rocky in that part ; 
and peering through the hedge, I saw them 
enter a covert by the side of the track which 
Master Stickles followed almost every even- 
ing, when he left our house upon business. 
And then I knew who it was they were 
come on purpose to murder — a thing which 
I might have guessed long before, but for 
terror and cold stupidity. 

“Oh that God,” I thought for a moment, 
waiting for my blood to flow — “ 0I1 that God 
had given me brains to meet such cruel das- 
tards according to their villainy ! The pow- 
er to lie, and the love of it ; the stealth to 
spy, and the glory in it ; above all, the quiet 
relish for blood, and joy in the death of an 
enemy — these are what any man must have, 
to contend with the Doones upon even 
terms. And yet I thank God that I have 
not any of these.” 

It was no time to dwell upon that, only 
to try, if might be, to prevent the crime they 
were bound upon. To follow the armed 
men down the hill would have been certain 
death to me, because there was no covert 
there, and the last light hung upon it. It 
seemed to me that my only chance to stop 
the mischief pending was to compass the 
round of the hill as fast as feet could be laid 
to ground, only keeping out of sight from 
the valley, and then down the rocks and 
across the brook to the track from Slocomb- 
slade, so as to stop the King’s messenger 
from traveling any farther, if only I could 
catch him there. 

And this was exactly what I did ; and a 
terrible run I had for it, fearing at every 
step to hear the echo of shots in the valley, 
aud dropping down the scrubby rocks with 
tearing and violent scratching. Then I 
crossed Bagworthy stream not far below 
Doone-valley, and breasted the hill toward 


LORNA DOONE. 


133 


Slocombslade, with my heart very heavily 
panting. Why Jeremy chose to ride this 
way, instead of the more direct one (which 
would have heen over Oare-hill), was more 
than I could account for : but I had nothing 
to do with that ; all I wanted was to save 
his life. 

And this I did by about a minute, and 
(which was the hardest thing of all) with 
a great horse-pistol at my head, as I seized 
upon his bridle. 

“ Jeremy, Jerry/ 7 was all I could say, being 
so fearfully short of breath ; for I had crossed 
the ground quicker than any horse could. 

“ Spoken just in time, John Ridd !” cried 
Master Stickles, still, however, pointing the 
pistol at me ; “ I might have known thee by 
thy size, John. What art doing here V 1 

“ Come to save your life. For God’s sake, 
go no farther. Three men in the covert 
there, with long guns, waiting for thee.” 

“ Ha ! I have been watched of late. That 
is why I pointed at thee, John. Back round 
this corner and get thy breath, and tell me 
all about it. I never saw a man so hurried. 
I could beat thee now, John.” 

Jeremy Stickles was a man of courage, 
and presence of mind, and much resource : 
otherwise he would not have been appointed 
for this business ; nevertheless, he trembled 
greatly when he heard what I had to tell 
him. But I took good care to keep back the 
name of young Marwood de Whichehalse; 
neither did I show my knowledge of the 
other men, for reasons of my own not very 
hard to conjecture. 

“We will let them cool their heels, John 
Ridd,” said Jeremy, after thinking a little. 
“ I can not fetch my musketeers either from 
Glenthorne or Lynmouth in time to seize 
the fellows. And three desperate Doones, 
well armed, are too many for you and me. 
One result this attempt will have; it will 
make us attack them sooner than we had 
intended. And one more it will have, good 
John: it will make me thy friend forever. 
Shake hands, my lad, and forgive me freely 
for having been so cold to thee. Mayhap, in 
the troubles coming, it will help thee not a 
little to have done me this good turn.” 

Upon that he shook me by the hand, with 
a pressure such as we feel not often; and 
having learned from me how to pass quite 
beyond view of his enemies, he rode on to 
his duty, whatever it might be. For my 
part I was inclined to stay, and watch how 
long the three fusileers would have the pa- 
tience to lie in wait; but seeing less and 
less use in that, as I grew more and more 
hungry, I swung my coat about me, and 
went home to Plover’s Barrows. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

A TROUBLED STATE, AND A FOOLISH JOKE. 

Stickles took me aside the next day, and 
opened all his business to me, whether I 
would or not. But I gave him clearly to 
understand that he was not to be vexed with 
me, neither to regard me as in any way dis- 
honest, if I should use for my own purpose, 
or for the benefit of my friends, any part of 
the knowledge and privity thus enforced 
upon me. To this he agreed quite readily ; 
but upon the express provision that I should 
do nothing to thwart his schemes, neither 
unfold them to any one; but otherwise be 
allowed to act according to my own con- 
science, and as consisted with the honor of 
a loyal gentleman — for so he was pleased to 
term me. Now what he said lay in no great 
compass, and may be summed in smaller 
still, especially as people know the chief 
part of it already- Disaffection to the King, 
or, rather, dislike to his brother James, and 
fear of Roman ascendency, had existed now 
for several years, and of late were spreading 
rapidly; partly through the downright ar- 
rogance of the Tory faction, the cruelty and 
austerity of the Duke of York, the corruption 
of justice, and confiscation of ancient rights 
and charters ; partly through jealousy of the 
French king, and his potent voice in our af- 
fairs; and partly (or perhaps one might even 
say, mainly) through that natural tide in all 
political channels which verily moves as if 
it had the moon itself for its mistress. No 
sooner is a thing done and fixed, being set 
far in advance perhaps of all that was done 
before (like a new mole in the sea), but im- 
mediately the waters retire, lest they should 
undo it ; and every one says how fine it is, 
but leaves other people to walk on it. Then 
after a while, the vague, endless ocean, hav- 
ing retired and lain still without a breeze 
or murmur, frets and heaves again with im- 
pulse, or with lashes laid on it, and in one 
great surge advances over every rampart. 

And so there was, at the time I speak of, a 
great surge in England, not rolling yet, but 
seething : and one which a thousand chief- 
justices, and a million Jeremy Stickles, 
should never be able to stop or turn, by 
stringing up men in front of it, any more 
than a rope of onions can repulse a volcano. 
But the worst of it was that this great move- 
ment took a wrong channel at first ; not only 
missing legitimate line, but roaring out that 
the back ditch way was the true and estab- 
lished course of it. 

Against this rash and random current 
nearly all the ancient mariners of the State 
were set ; not to allow the brave ship to drift 
there, though some little boats might try it. 
For the present there seemed to be a pause, 
with no open onset, but people on the shore 
expecting, each according to his wishes, and 
the feel of his own finger, whence the rush 


134 


LORNA DOONE. 


of wind should come which might direct the 
water. 

Now — to reduce high figures of speech 
into our own little numerals — all the towns 
of Somersetshire and half the towns of Dev- 
onshire were full of pushing, eager people, 
ready to swallow any thing, or to make oth- 
ers swallow it. Whether they believed the 
folly about the black box, and all that stuff, 
is not for me to say ; only one thiug I know, 
they pretended to do so, and persuaded the 
ignorant rustics. Taunton, Bridgewater, 
Minehead, and Dulverton took the lead of 
the other towns in utterance of their discon- 
tent, and threats of what they meant to do 
if ever a Papist dared to climb the Protest- 
ant throne of England. On the other hand, 
the Tory leaders were not as yet under ap- 
prehension of an immediate outbreak, and 
feared to damage their own cause by pre- 
mature coercion; for the struggle was not 
very likely to begin in earnest during the 
life of the present King, unless he should 
(as some people hoped) be so far embolden- 
ed as to make public confession of the faith 
which he held (if any). So the Tory policy 
was to watch, not indeed permitting their 
opponents to gather strength, and muster in 
armed force or with order, but being well 
apprised of all their schemes and intended 
movements, to wait for some bold overt act, 
and then to strike severely. And as a Tory 
watchman — or spy, as the Whigs would call 
him — Jeremy Stickles was now among us ; 
and his duty was threefold. 

First, and most ostensibly, to see to the 
levying of poundage in the little haven of 
Lynmouth, and farther up the coast, which 
was now becoming a place of resort for 
the folk whom we call smugglers, that is to 
say, who land their goods without regard 
to King’s revenue as by law established. 
And indeed there had been no officer ap- 
pointed to take toll, until one had been sent 
to Minehead, not so very long before. The 
excise as well (which had been ordered in 
the time of the Long Parliament) had been 
little heeded by the people hereabouts. 

Second, his duty was (though only the 
Doones had discovered it) to watch those 
outlaws narrowly, and report of their man- 
ners (which were scanty), doings (which 
were too manifold), reputation (which was 
execrable), and politics, whether true to the 
King and the Pope, or otherwise. 

Jeremy Stickles’s third business was en- 
tirely political — to learn the temper of our 
people and the gentle families ; to watch the 
movements of the trained bands (which could 
not always be trusted) ; to discover any col- 
lecting of arms and drilling of men among 
us ; to prevent (if need were, by open force) 
any importation of gunpowder, of which 
there had been some rumor; in a word, to 
observe and forestall the enemy. 

Now, in providing for this last-mentioned 


service, the Government had made a great 
mistake, doubtless through their anxiety to 
escape any public attention. For all the 
disposable force at their emissary’s com- 
mand amounted to no more than a score of 
musketeers, and these so divided along the 
coast as scarcely to suffice for the duty of 
sentinels. He held a commission, it is true, 
for the employment of the train-bands, but 
upon the understanding that he was not to 
call upon them (except as a last resource) 
for any political object ; although he might 
use them against the Doones as private crim- 
inals, if found needful, and supposing that 
he could get them. 

“ So you see, John,” he said, in conclusion, 
“I have more work than tools to do it with. 

I am heartily sorry I ever accepted such a 
mixed and meagre commission. At the bot- 
tom of it lies (I am well convinced) not only 
the desire to keep things quiet, but the pal- 
try jealousy of the military people. Because 
I am not a colonel, forsooth, or a captain in 
His Majesty’s service, it would never do to 
trust me with a company of soldiers ! And 
yet they would not send either colonel or 
eaptain, for fear of a stir in the rustic mind. 
The only thing that I can do with any chance 
of success is to rout out these vile Doone fel- 
lows, and burn their houses over their heads. 
Now what think you of that, John Ridd ?” 

“ Destroy the town of the Doones,” I said, 
u and all the Doones inside it ! Surely, Jer- 
emy, you would never think of such a cruel 
act as that !” 

“A cruel act, John ! It would be a mercy 
for at least three counties. No doubt you 
folk, who live so near, are well accustomed 
to them, and would miss your liveliness in 
coming home after night-fall, and the joy of 
finding your sheep and cattle right when you 
not expected it. But after a while you might 
get used to the dullness of being safe in your 
beds, and not losing your sisters and sweet- 
hearts. Surely, on the whole, it is as pleas- 
ant not to be robbed as to be robbed ?” 

“ I think we should miss them very much,” 

I answered, after consideration ; for the pos- 
sibility of having no Doones had never yet 
occurred to me, and we all were so thor- 
oughly used to them, and allowed for it in 
our year’s reckoning ; “ I am sure we should 
miss them very sadly ; and something worse 
would come of it.” 

“ Thou art the staunchest of all staunch 
Tories,” cried Stickles, laughing as he shook 
my hand ; “ thou believest in the divine 
right of robbers, who are good enough to 
steal thy own fat sheep. I am a jolly Tory, 
John; but thou art ten times jollier: oh! 
the grief in thy face at the thought of being 
robbed no longer !” 

He laughed in a very unseemly manner, 
while I descried nothing to laugh about. 
For we always like to see our way ; and ^ 
sudden change upsets us. And unless it 


LORNA DOONE. 


'were in the loss of the farm, or the death of 
the King, or of Betty Muxworthy, there was 
nothing that could so unsettle our minds as 
the loss of the Doones of Bagwbrthy. 

And besides all this, I was thinking, of 
course, and thinking more than all the rest, 
about the troubles that might ensue to my 
own beloved Lorna. If an attack of Glen 
Doone were made by savage soldiers and 
rude train -bands, what might happen, or 
what might not, to my delicate, innocent 
darling ? Therefore, when Jeremy Stickles 
again placed the matter before me, commend- 
ing my strength and courage, and skill (to 
flatter me of the highest), and finished by 
saying that I would be worth at least four 
common men to him, I cut him short as fol- 
lows : 

“ Master Stickles, once for all, I will have 
naught to do with it. The reason why is 
no odds of thine, nor in any way disloyal. 
Only in thy plans remember that I will not 
strike a blow, neither give any counsel, nei- 
ther guard any prisoners.” 

“Not strike a blow,” cried Jeremy, 
“ against thy father’s murderers, John!” 

“Not a single blow, Jeremy; unless I 
knew the man who did it, and lie gloried in 
his sin. It was a foul and dastard deed, 
yet not done in cold blood ; neither in cold 
blood will I take God’s task of avenging it.” 

“ Very well, John,” answered Master 
Stickles, “ I know thine obstinacy. When 
thy mind is made up, to argue with thee is 
pelting a rock with peppercorns. But thou 
hast some other reason, lad, unless I am much 
mistaken, over and above thy merciful na- 
ture and Christian forgiveness. Anyhow, 
come and see it, John. There will be good 
sport, I reckon ; especially when we thrust 
our claws into the nest of the ravens. Many 
a yeoman will find his daughter, and some 
of the Porlock lads their sweethearts. A 
nice young maiden, now, for thee, John ; if, 
indeed, any — ” 

“ No more of this !” I answered, very stern- 
ly : “ it is no business of thine, Jeremy ; and 
I will have no joking upon this matter.” 

“ Good, my lord : so be it. But one thing 
I tell thee in earnest : we will have thy old 
double-dealing uncle, Huckaback of Dulver- 
ton, and march him first to assault Doone 
'Castle, sure as my name is Stickles. I hear 
that he hath often vowed to storm the val- 
ley himself, if only he could find a dozen 
musketeers to back him. Now we will give 
him chance to do it, and prove his loyalty 
to the King, which lies under some suspicion 
of late.” 

With regard to this I had nothing to say ; 
for it seemed to me very reasonable that 
Uncle Reuben should have first chance of 
recovering his stolen goods, about which he 
had made such a sad todo, and promised 
himself such vengeance. I made bold, how- 
ever, to ask Master Stickles at what time he 


135 ' 

intended to carry out this great and haz- 
ardous attempt. He answered that he had 
several things requiring first to be set in or- 
der, and that he must make an inland jour- 
ney, even as far as Tiverton, and perhaps 
Crediton and Exeter, to collect his forces 
and ammunition for them. For he meant 
to have some of the yeomanry as well as of 
the train-bands, so that if the Doones should 
sally forth, as perhaps they would, on horse- 
back, cavalry might be there to meet them, 
and cut them off from returning. 

All this made me very uncomfortable, for 
many and many reasons, the chief and fore- 
most being of course my anxiety about Lor- 
na. If the attack succeeded, what was to 
become of her? Who would rescue her 
from the brutal soldiers, even supposing that 
she escaped from the hands of her own peo- 
ple, during the danger and ferocity ? And 
in smaller ways I was much put out; for 
instance, who would insure our corn-ricks, 
sheep, and cattle, ay, and even our fat pigs, 
now coming on for bacon, against the spread- 
ing all over the country of unlicensed ma- 
rauders ? The Doones had their rights, and 
understood them, and took them according 
to prescription, even as the parsons had, and 
the lords of manors, and the King himself, 
God save him! But how were these low 
soldiering fellows (half starved at home, 
very likely, and only too glad of the fat of 
the land, and ready, according to our prov- 
erb, to burn the paper they fried in), who 
were they, to come hectoring and heroing 
over us, and Heliogabalizing, with our pret- 
ty sisters to cook for them, and be chucked 
under chin perhaps afterward ? There is 
nothing England hates so much, according 
to my sense of it, as that fellows taken from 
plow-tail, cart-tail, pot-houses, and parish- 
stocks, should be hoisted and foisted upon 
us (after a few months’ drilling, and their 
lying shaped into truckling) as defenders 
of the public weal, and heroes of the uni- 
verse. 

In another way I was vexed, moreover — 
for after all we must consider the opinions 
of our neighbors — namely, that I knew quite 
well how every body for ten miles round 
(for my fame must have been at least that 
wide, after all my wrestling) would lift up 
hands and cry out thus : “ Black shame on 
John Ridd, if he lets them go without him.” 

Putting all these things together, as well 
as many others, which your own wits will 
suggest to you, it is impossible but what you 
will freely acknowledge that this unfortu- 
nate John Ridd was now in a cloven stick. 
There was Lorna, my love and life, bound 
by her duty to that old vil — nay, I mean to 
her good grandfather, who could now do 
little mischief, and therefore deserved all 
praise — Lorna bound, at any rate, by her 
womanly feelings, if not by sense of duty, to 
remaiu in the thick of danger, with nobody 


136 


LORNA DOONE. 


to protect her, but every body to covet lier, 
for beauty and position. Here was all the 
country roused with violent excitement, at 
the chance of snapping at the Doones ; and 
not only getting tit for tat, but every young 
man promising his sweetheart a gold chain, 
and his mother at least a shilling. And here 
was our own mow-yard, better filled than 
we could remember, and perhaps every sheaf 
in it destined to be burned or stolen, before 
we had finished the bread we had baked. 

Among all these troubles, there was how- 
ever, or seemed to be, one comfort. Tom 
Faggus returned from London very proudly 
and very happily, with a royal pardon in 
black and white, which every body admired 
the more, because no one could read a word 
of it. The Squire himself acknowledged 
cheerfully that he could sooner take fifty 
purses than read a single line of it. Some 
people indeed went so far as to say that the 
parchment was made from a sheep Tom had 
stolen, and that was why it prevaricated so 
in giving him a character. But I, knowing 
something, by this time, of lawyers, was able 
to contradict them ; affirming that the wolf 
had more than the sheep to do with this 
matter. 

For, according to our old saying, the three 
learned professions live by roguery on the 
three parts of a man. The doctor mauls our 
bodies; the parson starves our souls; but 
the lawyer must be the adroitest knave, for 
he has to ensnare our minds. Therefore he 
takes a careful delight in covering his traps 
and engines with a spread of dead-leaf words, 
whereof himself knows little more than half 
the way to spell them. 

But now Tom Faggus, although having 
wit to gallop away on his strawberry mare, 
with the speed of terror, from lawyers (hav- 
ing paid them with money too honest to 
stop), yet fell into a reckless adventure ere 
ever he came home, from which any lawyer 
would have saved him, although he ought to 
have needed none beyond common thought 
for dear Annie. Now I am, and ever have 
been, so vexed about this story that I can 
not tell it pleasantly (as I try to write in 
general) in my own words and manner. 
Therefore I will let John Fry (whom I have 
robbed of another story, to which lie was 
more entitled, and whom I have robbed of 
many speeches — which he thought very ex- 
cellent — lest I should grieve any one with his 
lack of education — the last lack he ever felt, 
by-the-bye), now, with your good leave, I 
will allow poor John to tell this tale in his 
own words and style ; which he has a per- 
fect right to do, having been the first to tell 
us. For Squire Faggus kept it close ; not 
trusting even Annie with it (or at least she 
said so) ; because no man knows much of 
his sweetheart’s tongue until she has borne 
him a child or two. 

Only before J ohn begins his story, this I 


would say, in duty to him, and in common 
honesty, that I dare not write down some 
few of his words, because they are not con- 
venient, for dialect or other causes ; and that 
I can not find any way of spelling many of 
the words which I do repeat, so that people 
not born on Exmoor may know how he pro- 
nounced them ; even if they could bring 
their lips and their legs to the proper atti- 
tude. And in this I speak advisedly; hav- 
ing observed some thousand times that the 
manner a man has of spreading his legs, and 
bending his knees, or stiffening, and even the 
way he will set his heel, make all the dif- 
ference in his tone, and time of casting his 
voice aright, and power of coming home to 
you. 

We always liked John’s stories, not for 
any wit in them, but because we laughed at 
the man rather than the matter. The way 
he held his head was enough, with his chin 
fixed hard like a certainty (especially during 
his biggest lie), not a sign of a smile in his 
lips or nose, but a power of not laughing ; 
and his eyes not turning to any body, unless 
somebody had too much of it (as young girls 
always will), and went over the brink of 
laughter. Thereupon it was good to see 
John Fry; how he looked gravely first at 
the laugher, as much as to ask, “ What is it 
now ?” then, if the fool went laughing more, 
as he or she was sure to do upon that dry 
inquiry, John would look again, to be sure 
of it, and then at somebody else to learn 
whether the laugh had company ; then, if he 
got another grin, all his mirth came out in 
glory with a sudden break, and he wiped his 
lips, and was grave again. 

Now John, being too much encouraged by 
the girls (of which I could never break 
them), came into the house that December 
evening, with every inch of him full of a 
tale. Annie saw it, and Lizzie of course ; 
and even I, in the gloom of great evils, per- 
ceived that John was a loaded gun ; but I 
did not care to explode him. Now nothing 
primed him so hotly as this ; if you wanted 
to hear all John Fry had heard, the surest 
of all sure ways to it was to pretend not to 
care for a word of it. 

“ I wor over to Exeford in the marning,” 
John began from the chimney corner, look- 
ing straight at Annie, “for to zee a little 
calve, Jan, as us cuddn’t get thee to lave 
houze about. Meesus have got a quare van- 
cy vor un, from wutt her have heer’d of the 
brade. Now zit quite, wull e,’ Miss Luzzie, 
or a ’wunt goo on no vurder. Yaine little 
tayl I’ll tull ’ee, if so be thee zits quite. 
Wull, as I coom down the hill, I zeed a 
saight of volks a-stapping of the ro-udwai. 
Arl on ’em wi’ girt goons, or two men out of 
dree wi’ em. Rackon there wor dree-score 
on ’em, tak smarl and beg togather laike ; 
latt aloun the women and chillers ; zum on 
’em wi’ matches blowing, tothers wi’ flint'' 


LORNA DOONE. 


lacks. ‘Wutt be up nowf I says to Bill 
Blacksmith, as had knowledge of me; ‘be 
the King a-coomin? If her be, do ’ee want 
to shutt ’un V 

“ 1 Thee not knaw !’ says Bill Blacksmith, 
just the zame as I be a-tullin of it : ‘ whai, 
man, us expex Tam Faggus, and zum on us 
manes to shutt ’un.’ 

“ ‘ Shutt ’un wi’out a warrant !’ says I : 
‘sure ’ee knaws better nor thic, Bill! A 
man mayn’t shutt to another man, wi’out 
have a warrant, Bill. Warship zed so, last 
taime I zeed un, and nothing to the eon- 
trairy.’ 

“ ‘ Haw, haw ! Never frout about that,’ 
saith Bill, zame as I be tullin you: ‘us has 
warrants and warships enow, dree or vour 
on ’em. And more nor a dizzen warranties, 
fro’ut I know to contrairy. Shutt ’un, us 
manes ; and shutt ’un, us will — ’ Whai, 
Miss Annie, good Lord, whuttiver makes ’ee 
stear so ?” 

“Nothing at all, John,” our Annie an- 
swered ; “ only the horrible ferocity of that 
miserable blacksmith.” 

“ That be nayther here nor there,” John 
continued, with some wrath at his own in- 
terruption : “ Blacksmith knawed whutt the 
Squire had been ; and veared to lose his 
own custom, if Squire tuk to shooin’ again. 
Shutt any man I would myzell as intervared 
wi’ my trade laike. ‘Lucky for thee,’ said 
Bill Blacksmith, ‘ as thee bee’st so shart and 
fat, Jan. Dree on us wor agooin’ to shutt 
’ee, till us zeed how fat thee waz, Jan.’ 

‘“Lor now, Bill!’ I answered ’un, wi’ a 
girt cold swat upon me: ‘shutt me, Bill; 
and my own waife niver drame of it !’ ” 

Here John Fry looked round the kitch- 
en ; for he had never said any thing of the 
kind, I doubt; but now made it part of 
his discourse, from thinking that Mistress 
Fry was come, as she generally did, to fetch 
him. 

“Wull done then, Jan Yry,” said the 
woman, who had entered quietly, but was 
only our old Molly. “ Wutt handsome man- 
ners thee hast gat, Jan, to spake so well of 
thy waife laike ; after arl the laife she lades 
thee !” 

“ Putt thee pot on the fire, old ’ooman, 
and bile thee own bakkon,” John answered 
her, very sharply: “nobody no raight to 
meddle wi’ a man’s bad ’ooman but himzell. 
Wull, here was all these here men a-waitin’, 
zum wi’ harses, zum wi’out ; the common 
volk wi’ long girt guns, and the quarlity wi’ 
girt broadswords. Who wor there ? Whay, 
latt me zee. There wor Squaire Maunder,” 
here John assumed his full historical key, 
“ him wi’ the pot to his vittle-place ; and 
Sir Richard Blewitt shaking over the zaddle, 
and Squaire Sandford of Lee, him wi’ the 
long nose and one eye, and Sir Gronus Bat- 
childor over to Ninehead Court, and ever so 
many more on ’em, tulling us how they was 


13? 

arl gooin’ to be promoted for kitching- of 
Tom Faggus. 

“ ‘ Hope to God,’ says I to myzell, ‘ poor 
Tom wun’t coom here to-day: arl up with 
her, if ’a doeth : and who be there to suck- 
zade ’un V Mark me now, all these charps 
was good to shutt ’un, as her coom crass the 
watter; the watter be waide enow there 
and stony,* but no deeper than my knee- 
place. 

“ ‘ Thee cas’n goo no vurder,’ Bill Black- 
smith saith to me : ‘ na wbody ’lowed to crass 
the vorcl until such time as Faggus coom ; 
plaise God, us may mak sure of ’un.’ 

“ ‘Amen, zo be it,’ says I ; ‘ God knowth I 
be never in any hurry, and would zooner 
stop nor goo on, most taimes.’ 

“ Wi’ that I pulled my vittles out, and zat 
a horse -barck, atin’ of ’em, and oncommon 
good they was. ‘Won’t us have ’un this 
taime just,’ saith Tim Potter, as keepeth the 
bull there; ‘and yet I be zorry for ’un. 
But a man must kape the law, her must; 
zo be her can only larn it. And now poor 
Tom will swing as high as the tops of they 
girt hashes there.’ 

“ ‘ Just thee kitch ’un virst,’ says I ; ‘mais- 
ure rope, wi’ the body to maisure by.’ 

“ ‘ Hurra ! here be another now,’ saith Bill 
Blacksmith, grinning ; ‘ another coom td 
help us. What a grave gentleman ! A 
warship of the pace, at laste !’ 

“For a gentleman, on a cue -ball horse, 
was coming slowly down the hill on tother 
zide of watter, looking at us in a friendly 
way, and with a long papper standing forth 
the lining of his coat laike. Horse stapped 
to drink in the watter, and gentleman spak 
to ’un kindly, and then they coom raight on 
to ussen, and the gentleman’s face wor so 
long and so grave, us veared ’a wor gooin’ 
to prache to us. 

“ ‘ Coort o’ King’s Bench,’ saith one man ; 
‘ Checker and Plays,’ saith another ; ‘ Spishal 
Commission, I doubt,’ saith Bill Blacksmith ; 
‘ backed by the Mayor of Taunton.’ 

“‘Any Justice of the King’s Peace, good 
people, to be found near here V said the 
gentleman, lifting his hat to us, and very 
gracious in his manner. 

“ ‘ Your honor,’ saith Bill, with his hat off 
his head, ‘ there be sax or zeven warships 
here, arl on ’em very wise ’uns. Squaire 
Maunder there be the zinnyer.’ 

“So the gentleman rode up to Squire 
Maunder, and raised his cocked hat in a 
manner that took the Squire out of coun 
tenance, for he could not do the like of it. 

“ ‘ Sir,’ said he, ‘ good and wurshipful sir, 
I am here to claim your good advice and 
valor, for purposes of justice. I hold His 
Majesty’s commission to make to cease a no- 
torious rogue whose name is Thomas Fag- 
gus.’ With that he offered his commission ; 
but Squire Maunder told the truth, that he 
could not rade even words in print, much 


138 


LORNA DOONE 


less written karakters.* Then the other 
magistrates rode up, and put their heads to- 
gether, how to meet the Loudon gentleman 
without loss of importance. There wor one 
of ’em as could rade purty vair, and her 
made out King’s mark upon it : and he bow- 
ed upon his horse to the gentleman, and he 
laid his hand on his heart and said, ‘ Worship- 
ful sir, we, as has the honor of Sis Gracious 
Majesty’s commission, are entirely at your 
service, and crave instructions from you.’ 

“Then a waving of hats began, and a 
bowing, and making of legs to wan anather, 
sich as nayver wor zeed afore ; but none of 
’em arl, for air and brading, cud coom anaigh 
the gentleman with the long grave face. 

“‘Your warships have posted the men 
right well,’ saith he, with anather bow all 
round ; ‘ surely that big rogue will have no 
chance left among so many valiant mus- 
keteers. Ha ! what see I there, my friend ? 
Rust in the pan of your gun! That gun 
would never go off, sure as I am the King’s 
Commissioner. And I see another just as 
bad ; and lo, there’s the third ! Pardon me, 
gentlemen, I have been so used to his Majes- 
ty’s Ordnance-yards. But I fear that bold 
rogue would ride through all of you, and 
laugh at your worships’ beards, by George.’ 

“ ‘ But what shall us do V Squire Maunder 
axed ; ‘ I vear there be no oil here.’ 

“ ‘ Discharge your pieces, gentlemen, and 
let the men do the same ; or at least let us 
try to discharge them, and load again with 
fresh powder. It is the fog of the morning 
hath spoiled the priming. That rogue is 
not in sight yet : but God knows we must 
not be asleep with him, or what will His 
Majesty say to me, if we let him slip once 
more V 

“ ‘Excellent, wondrous well said, good sir,’ 
Squire Maunder answered him ; ‘ I never 
should have thought of that now. Bill 
Blacksmith, tell all the men to be ready to 
shoot up into the air, directly I give the 
word. Now, are you ready there, Bill V 

“ ‘ All ready, you worship,’ saith Bill, sa- 
luting like a soldier. 

“ ‘ Then, one, two, dree, and shutt !’ cries 
Squire Maunder, standing up in the irons 
of his stirrups. 

“ Thereupon they all blazed out, and the 
noise of it went all round the hills, with a 
girt thick cloud arising, and all the air smell- 
ing of powder. Before the cloud was gone 
so much as ten yards on the wind, the gen- 
tleman on the cue-bald horse shuts up his 
face like a pair of nut -cracks, as wide as 

* Lest I seem to underrate the erudition of Devon- 
shire magistrates, I venture to offer copy of a letter 
from a Justice of the Peace to his bookseller, circa 
1810 a.d., now in my possession : 

“ Snr, 

plez to zen me the aks relatting to A - gustus- 
■paks .' t Ed. of L. D. 

t [Emphasized thus in original.] 


it was long before, and out he pulls two girt 
pistols longside of zaddle, and clap’th one 
to Squire Maunder’s head, and tother to Sir 
Richard Blewitt’s. 

“‘Hand forth your money and all your 
warrants,’ he saith, like a clap of thunder ; 
‘gentlemen, have you now the wit to appre- 
hend Tom Faggus V 

“ Squire Maunder swore so that he ought 
to be fined ; but he pulled out his purse none 
the slower for that, and so did Sir Richard 
Blewitt. 

“ ‘ First man I see go to load a gun, I’ll 
gi’e ’un the bullet to do it with,’ said Tom ; 
for you see it was him and no other, looking 
quietly round upon all of them. Then he 
robbed all the rest of their warships, as pleas- 
ant as might be ; and he saith, ‘ Now, gen- 
tlemen, do your duty ; serve your warrants 
afore you imprison me :’ with that he made 
them give up all the warrants, and he stuck 
them in the band of his hat, and then he 
made a bow with it. 

“ ‘ Good -morning to your warships now, 
and a merry Christmas all of you ! And the 
merrier both for rich and poor, when gentle- 
men see their almsgiving. Lest you deny 
yourselves the pleasure, I will aid your war- 
ships. And to save you the trouble of fol- 
lowing me, when your guns be loaded — this 
is my strawberry mare, gentlemen, only with 
a little cream on her. Gentlemen all, in the 
name of the King, I thank you.’ 

“All this while he was casting their mon- 
ey among the poor folk by the handful ; and 
then he spak kaindly to the red mare, and 
wor over the back of the hill in two zec- 
onds, and best part of two made away, I 
reckon, afore ever a gun wor loaded.’”* 


CHAPTER XL. 

TWO FOOLS TOGETHER. 

That story of John Fry’s, instead of caus- 
ing any amusement, gave us great disquie- 
tude ; not only because it showed that Tom 
Faggus could not resist sudden temptation 
and the delight of wildness, but also that 
we greatly feared lest the King’s pardon 
might be annulled, and all his kindness can- 
celed, by a reckless deed of that sort. It 
was true (as Annie insisted continually, even 
with tears, to wear in her arguments) that 
Tom had not brought away any thing ex- 
cept the warrants, which were of no use at 
all, after receipt of the pardon ; neither had 
he used any violence except just to frighten 
people ; but could it be established, even to- 
ward Christmas-time, that Tom had a right 
to give alms, right and left, out of other 
people’s money ? 


* The truth of this story is well established by first- 
rate tradition. 


LORNA DOONE. 


139 


Dear Annie appeared to believe that it 
could; saying that if the rich continually 
chose to forget the poor, a man who forced 
them to remember, and so to do good to 
themselves and to others, was a public ben- 
efactor, and entitled to every blessing. But 
I knew, and so Lizzie knew — John Fry be- 
ing now out of hearing — that this was not 
sound argument. For if it came to that, 
any man might take the King by the throat, 
and make him cast away among the poor 
the money which he wanted sadly for Her 
Grace the Duchess, and the beautiful Count- 
ess of this and of that. Lizzie, of course, 
knew nothing about His Majesty’s diver- 
sions, which were not fit for a young maid’s 
thoughts; but I now put the form of the 
argument as it occurred to me. 

Therefore I said, once for all (and both 
my sisters always listened when I used the 
deep voice from my chest), 

“ Tom Faggus hath done wrong herein ; 
wrong to himself and to our Annie. All he 
need have done was to show his pardon, and 
the magistrates would have rejoiced with 
him. He might have led a most godly life, 
nnd have beeu respected by every body ; and 
knowing how brave Tom is, I thought that 
he would have done as much. Now if I 
were in love with a maid” — I put it thus 
for the sake of poor Lizzie — “ never would 
I so imperil my life, and her fortune in life 
nlong with me, for the sake of a poor diver- 
sion. A man’s first duty is to the women, 
who are forced to hang upon him — ” 

“ Oh, John, not that horrible word!” cried 
Annie, to my great surprise, and serious in- 
terruption: “oh, John, any word but that!” 
And she burst forth crying terribly. 

“ What word, Lizzie ? What does the 
wench mean ?” I asked, in the saddest vexa- 
tion ; seeing no good to ask Annie at all, for 
she carried on most dreadfully. 

“ Don’t you know, you stupid lout ?” said 
Lizzie, completing my wonderment, by the 
scorn of her quicker intelligence: “if you 
don’t know, axe about I” 

And with that I was forced to be content ; 
for Lizzie took Annie in such a manner (on 
purpose to vex me, as I could see) with her 
head drooping down, and her hair coming 
over, and tears and sobs rising and falling 
to boot, without either order or reason, that 
seeing no good for a man to do (since neither 
of them was Lorna), I even went out into the 
court-yard and smoked a pipe, and wondered 
what on earth is the meaning of women. 

Now in this I was wrong and unreasona- 
ble (as all women will acknowledge); but 
sometimes a man is so put out, by the way 
they take on about nothing, that he really 
can not help thinking, for at least a minute, 
that women are a mistake forever, and hence 
are forever mistaken. Nevertheless I could 
not see that any of these great thoughts and 
ideas applied at all to my Lorna, but that 


she was a different being; not woman enough 
to do any thing bad, yet enough of a woman 
for man to adore. 

And now a thing came to pass which test- 
ed my adoration pretty sharply, inasmuch 
as I would far liefer have faced Carver Doone 
and his father, nay, even the roaring lion 
himself, with his hoofs and flaming nostrils, 
than have met in cold blood Sir Eusor Doone, 
the founder of all the colony, and the fear 
of the very fiercest. 

But that I was forced to do at this time, 
and in the manner following. When I went 
up one morning to look for my seven rooks’ 
nests, behold there were but six to be seen ; 
for the topmost of them all was gone, and 
the most conspicuous. I looked, and looked, 
and rubbed my eyes, and turned to try them 
by other sights; and then I looked again; 
yes, there could be no doubt about it ; the 
signal was made for me to come, because 
my love was in danger. For me to enter 
the valley now during the broad daylight 
could have brought no comfort, but only 
harm to the maiden, and certain death tc 
myself. Yet it was more than I could do to 
keep altogether at distance ; therefore I ran 
to the nearest place where I could remain 
unseen, and watched the glen from the wood- 
ed height, for hours and hours, impatiently. 

However, no impatience of mine made any 
difference in the scene upon which I was 
gazing. In the part of the valley which I 
could see there was nothing moving except 
the water, and a few stolen cows going sadly 
along, as if knowing that they had.no lion 
est right there. It sank very heavily into 
my heart, with all the beds of dead leaves 
around it, and there was nothing I cared to 
do except blow on my fingers, and long for 
more wit. 

For a frost was beginning, which made a 
great difference to Lorna and to myself, I 
trow, as well as to all the five million people 
who dwell in this island of England ; such 
a frost as never I saw before,* neither hope 
ever to see again ; a time when it was im- 
possible to milk a cow for icicles, or for a 
man to shave some of his beard (as I liked 
to do for Lorna’s sake, because she was so 
smooth) without blunting his razor on hard 
gray ice. No man could “keep yatt” (as we 
say, even though he abandoned his work al- 
together, and thumped himself, all on the 
chest and the front, till his frozen hands 
would have been bleeding, except for the 
cold that kept still all his veins. 

However, at present there was no frost, 
although for a fortnight threatening ; and I 
was too young to know the meaning of the 

* If John Ridd lived until the year 1740 (as so strong 
a man was bound to do), he must have seen almost a 
harder frost ; and perhaps it put an end to him ; for 
then he would be some fourscore years old. But tra- 
dition makes him “keep yatt,” as he says, up to five- 
score years.— Ed. L. D. 


140 


LORNA DOONE. 


way the dead leaves hung, and the worm- 
casts prickling like women’s combs, and the 
leaden tone upon every thing, and the dead 
weight of the sky. Will Watcombe, the old 
man at Lynmouth, who had been half over 
the world almost, and who talked so much 
of the Gulf Stream, had (as I afterward call- 
ed to mind) foretold a very bitter winter 
this year. But no one would listen to him, 
because there were not so many hips and 
haws as usual ; whereas we have all learned 
from our grandfathers that Providence nev- 
er sends very hard winters, without having 
furnished a large supply of berries for the 
birds to feed upon. 

It was lucky for me, while I waited here, 
that our very best sheep-dog, old Wateh, had 
chosen to accompany me that day. For 
otherwise I must have had no dinner, being 
unpersuaded, even by that, to quit my sur- 
vey of the valley. However, by aid of poor 
Watch, I contrived to obtain a supply of 
food; for I sent him home with a note to 
Annie fastened upon his chest ; and in less 
than an hour back he came, proud enough 
to wag his tail off, with his tongue hang- 
ing out, from the speed of his journey, and 
a large lump of bread and of bacon fastened 
in a napkin around his neck. I had not told 
my sister, of course, what was toward ; for 
why should I make her anxious ? 

When it grew toward dark, I was just be- 
ginning to prepare for my circuit around the 
hills; but suddenly Watch gave a long low 
growl ; I kept myself close as possible, and 
ordered the dog to be silent, and presently 
saw a short figure approaching from a thick- 
ly wooded hollow on the left side of my hid- 
ing-place. It was the same figure I had seen 
once before in the moonlight at Plover’s Bar- 
rows, and proved, to my great delight, to be 
the little maid Gwenny Carfax. She start- 
ed a moment at seeing me, but more with 
surprise than fear ; and then she laid both 
her hands upon mine, as if she had known 
me for twenty years. 

“ Young man,” she said, “ you must come 
with me. I was gwaiu’ all the way to fetch 
thee. Old man be dying ; and her can’t die, 
or at least her won’t, without first consider- 
ing thee.” 

“ Considering me!” I cried: “what can 
Sir Ensor Doone want with considering me ? 
Has Mistress Lorna told him ?” 

“ All concerning thee, and thy doings ; 
when she knowed old man were so near his 
end. That vexed he was about thy low 
blood, a’ thought her would come to life again, 
on purpose for to bate ’ee. But after all, 
there can’t be scarcely such bad luck as that. 
Now, if her strook thee, thou must take it; 
there be no denaying of un. Fire I have 
seen afore, hot and red, and raging ; but I 
never seen cold fire afore, and it maketh me 
burn and shiver.” 

And in truth it made me both burn and 


shiver to know that I must either go straight 
to the presence of Sir Ensor Doone, or give 
up Lorna once for all, and rightly be de- 
spised by her. For the first time of my life 
I thought that she had not acted fairly. 
Why not leave the old man in peace, with- 
out vexing him about my affairs? But 
presently I saw again that in this matter 
she was right; that she could not receive 
the old man’s blessing (supposing that he 
had one to give, which even a worse man 
might suppose) while she deceived him about 
herself, and the life she had undertaken. 

Therefore, with great misgiving of my- 
self, but no ill thought of my darling, I sent 
Watch home, and followed Gwenny; who 
led me along very rapidly, with her short 
broad form gliding down the hollow from 
which she had first appeared. Here at the 
bottom she entered a thicket of gray ash 
stubs and black holly, with rocks around it 
gnarled with roots, and hung with masks of 
ivy. Here in a dark and lonely corner, with 
a pixie ring before it, she came to a narrow 
door, very brown and solid, looking like a 
trunk of wood at a little distance. This she 
opened without a key, by stooping down and 
pressing it where the threshold met the 
jamb ; and then she ran in very nimbly, but 
I was forced to be bent in two, and even 
so without comfort. The passage was close 
and difficult, and as dark as any black pitch ; 
but it was not long (be it as it might), and 
in that there was some comfort. We came 
out soon at the other end, and were at the 
top of Doone valley. In the chilly dusk air 
it looked almost untempting, especially dur- 
ing that state of mind under which I was la- 
boring. As we crossed toward the Captain’s 
house, we met a couple of great Doones 
lounging by the water-side. Gwenny said 
something to them ; and although they stared 
very hard at me, they let me pass without 
hinderance. It is not too much to say that 
when the little maid opened Sir Ensor’s 
door, my heart thumped quite as much with 
terror as with hope of Lorna’s presence. 

But in a moment the fear was gone, for 
Lorna was trembling in my arms, and my 
courage rose to comfort her. The darling 
feared, beyond all things else, lest I should 
be offended with her for what she had said 
to her grandfather, and for dragging me 
into his presence; but I told her almost a 
falsehood (the first, and the last, that ever I 
did tell her), to wit, that I cared not that 
much — and showed her the tip of my thumb 
as I said it — for old Sir Ensor, and all his 
wrath, so long as I had his granddaughter’s 
love. 

Now I tried to think this as I said it, so as 
to save it from being a lie ; but somehow or 
other it did not answer, and I was vexed 
with myself both ways. But Lorna took 
me by the hand as bravely as she could, and 
led me into a little passage where I could 


IjORNA doone. 


141 


hear the river moaning and the branches 
rustling. 

Here I passed as long a minute as fear ever 
cheated time of, saying to myself continually 
that there was nothing to be frightened at, 
yet growing more and more afraid by reason 
of so reasoning. At last my Lorna came 
back very pale, as I saw by the candle she 
carried, and whispered, “Now be patient, 
dearest. Never mind what he says to you ; 
neither attempt to answer him. Look at 
him gently and steadfastly, and, if you can, 
with some show of reverence ; but above all 
things, no compassion ; it drives him almost 
mad. Now come ; walk very quietly.” 

She led me into a cold dark room, rough 
and very gloomy, although with two candles 
burning. I took little heed of the things 
in it, though I marked that the window was 
open. That which I heeded was an old 
man, very stern and comely, with death 
upon his countenance ; yet not lying in his 
bed, but set upright in a chair, with a loose 
red cloak thrown over him. Upon this his 
white hair fell, and his pallid fingers lay in 
a ghastly fashion without a sign of life or 
movement, or of the power that kept him 
up ; all rigid, calm, and relentless. Only in 
his great black eyes, fixed upon me solemn- 
ly, all the power of his body dwelt, all the 
life of his soul was burning. 

I could not look at him very nicely, being 
afeared of the death in his face, and most 
afeared to show it. And to tell the truth, 
my poor blue eyes fell away from the black- 
ness of his, as if it had been my coffin-plate. 
Therefore I made a low obeisance, and tried 
not to shiver. Only I groaned that Lorna 
thought it good manners to leave us two to- 
gether. 

“Ah!” said the old man, and his voice 
seemed to come from a cavern of skeletons ; 
“ are you that great John Ridd ?” 

“ John Ridd is my name, your honor,” was 
all that I could answer ; “ and I hope your 
worship is better.” 

“ Child, have you sense enough to know 
what you have been doing ?” 

“Yes, I know right well,” I answered, 
“that I have set mine eyes far above my 
rank.” 

“Are you ignorant that Lorna Doone is 
born of the oldest families remaining in 
North Europe ?” 

“ I was ignorant of that, your worship ; 
yet I knew of her high descent from the 
Doones of Bagworthy.” 

The old man’s eyes, like fire, probed me 
whether I was jesting ; then perceiving how 
grave I was, and thinkiug that I could not 
laugh (as many people suppose of me), he 
took on himself to make good the deficiency 
with a very bitter smile. 

“And know you of your own low descent 
from the Ridds, of Oare ?” 

“ Sir,” I answered, being as yet unaccus- 


tomed to this style of speech, “ the Ridds, 
of Oare, have been honest men twice as long 
as the Doones have been rogues.” 

“I would not answer for that, John,” Sir 
Ensor replied, very quietly, when I expect- 
ed fury. “ If it be so, thy family is the very 
oldest in Europe. Now hearken to me, boy, 
or clown, or honest fool, or whatever thou 
art ; hearken to an old man’s words, who has 
not many hours to live. There is nothing 
in this world to fear, nothing to revere or 
trust, nothing even to hope for ; least of all, 
is there aught to love.” 

“ I hope your worship is not quite right,” 
I answered, with great misgivings ; “ else it 
is a sad mistake for any body to live, sir.” 

“Therefore,” he continued, as if I had 
never spoken, “though it may seem hard for 
a week or two, like the loss of any other toy, 
I deprive you of nothing, but add to your 
comfort, and (if there be such a thing) to 
your happiness, when I forbid you ever to 
see that foolish child again. All marriage 
is a wretched farce, even when man and wife 
belong to the same rank of life, have temper 
well assorted, similar likes and dislikes, and 
about the same pittance of mind. But when 
they are not so matched, the farce would be- 
come a long, dull tragedy, if any thing were 
worth lamenting. There, I have reasoned 
enough with you ; I am not in the habit of 
reasoning. Though I have little confidence 
in man’s honor, I have some reliance in wom- 
an’s pride. You will pledge your word in 
Lorna’s presence never to see or to seek her 
again ; never even to think of her more. 
Now call her, for I am weary.” 

He kept his great eyes fixed upon me with 
their icy fire (as if he scorned both life and 
death), and on his haughty lips some slight 
amusement at my trouble; and then he 
raised one hand (as if I were a poor dumb 
creature), and pointed to the door. Al- 
though my heart rebelled and kindled at his 
proud disdain, I could not disobey him free- 
ly ; but made a low salute, and went straight- 
way in search of Lorna. 

I found my love (or not my love, accord- 
ing as now she should behave ; for I was 
very desperate, being put upon so sadly) 
Lorna Doone was crying softly at a little 
window, and listening to the river’s grief. 
I laid my heavy arm around her, not with 
any air of claiming or of forcing her thoughts 
to me, but only just to comfort her, and ask 
what she was thinking of. To my arm she 
made no answer, neither to my seeking eyes ; 
but to my heart, once for all, she spoke with 
her own upon it. Not a word nor sound 
between us; not even a kiss was inter- 
changed ; but man, or maid, who has ever 
loved hath learned our understanding. 

Therefore it came to pass that we saw fit 
to enter Sir Ensor’s room in the following 
manner : Lorna, with her right hand swal- 
lowed entirely by the palm of mine, and her 


142 


LORNA DOONE. 


waist retired from view by means of my left I 
arm. All one side of her hair came down, 
in a way to be remembered, upon the left 
and fairest part of my favorite otter-skin 
waistcoat ; and her head as well would have 
lain there doubtless, but for the danger of 
walking so. I, for my part, was too far gone 
to lag behind in the matter, but carried my 
love bravely, fearing neither death nor hell 
while she abode beside me. 

Old Sir Ensor looked much astonished. 
For forty years he had been obeyed and fear- 
ed by all around him ; and he knew that I 
had feared him vastly before I got hold of 
Lorna. And indeed I was still afraid of 
him ; only for loving Lorna so, and having 
to protect her. 

Then I made him a bow, to the very best 
of all I had learned both at Tiverton and in 
London ; after that I waited for him to be- 
gin, as became his age and rank in life. 

“ Ye two fools !” he said at last, with a 
depth of contempt which no words may ex- 
press ; “ ye two fools !” 

“ May it please your worship,” I answer- 
ed, softly ; “ maybe we are not such fools as 
we look. But though we be, w T e are well 
content, so long as we may be two fools to- 
gether.” 

“Why, John,” said the old man, with a 
spark, as of smiling in his eyes ; “ thou art 
not altogether the clumsy yokel and the clod 
I took thee for.” 

“Oh no, grandfather; oh, dear grandfa- 
ther,” cried Lorna, with such zeal and flash- 
ing that her hands went forward ; “ nobody 
knows what John Ridd is, because he is so 
modest. I mean nobody except me, dear.” 
And here she turned to me again, and rose 
upon tiptoe, and kissed me. 

“ I have seen a little of the world,” said 
the old man, while I was half ashamed, al- 
though so proud of Lorna ; “ but this is be- 
yond all I have seen, and nearly all I have 
heard of. It is more fit for southern climates 
than for the fogs of Exmoor.” 

“ It is fit for all the world, your worship ; 
with your honor’s good leave and will,” I 
answered in humility, being still ashamed 
of it ; “ when it happens so to people, there 
is nothing that can stop it, sir.” 

Now Sir Ensor Doone was leaning back 
upon his brown chair-rail, which was built 
like a triangle, as in old farm-houses (from 
one of which it had come, no doubt, free 
from expense or gratitude) ; and as I spoke 
he coughed a little ; and he sighed a good 
deal more ; and perhaps his dying heart de- 
sired to open time again, with such a lift 
of warmth and hope as he descried in our 
eyes and arms. I could not understand him 
then, any more than a baby playing with his 
grandfather’s spectacles ; nevertheless I won- 
dered whether, at his time of life, or rather 
on the brink of death, he was thinking of 
his youth and pride. 


| “ Fools you are ; be fools forever,” said 

Sir Ensor Doone at last ; while we feared to 
break his thoughts, but let each other know 
our own, with little ways of pressure : “ it 
is the best thing I can wish you ; boy and 
girl, be boy and gill, until you have grand- 
children.” 

Partly in bitterness he spoke, and partly 
in pure weariness, and then he turned so as 
not to see us ; and his white hair fell, like a 
shroud, around him. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

COLD COMFORT. 

All things being full of flaw, all things 
being full of holes, the strength of all things 
is in shortness. If Sir Ensor Doone had 
dwelled for half an hour upon himself, and 
an hour perhaps upon Lorna and me, we 
must both have wearied of him, and required 
change of air. But now I longed to see and 
know a great deal more about him, and 
hoped that he might not go to heaven for at 
least a week or more. However, he was too 
good for this world (as we say of all peo- 
ple who leave it) ; and I verily believe his 
heart was not a bad one, after all. 

Evil he had done, no doubt, as evil had 
been done to him ; yet how many have done 
evil, while receiving only good ! Be that as 
it may ; and not vexing a question (settled 
forever without our votes), let us own that 
he was, at least, a brave and courteous gen- 
tleman. 

And his loss aroused great lamentation, 
not among the Doones alone and the women 
they had carried off, but also of the general 
public, and many even of the magistrates, 
for several miles round Exmoor. And this, 
not only from fear lest one more wicked 
might succeed him (as appeared, indeed, too 
probable), but from true admiration of his 
strong will, and sympathy with his mis- 
fortunes. 

I will not deceive any one by saying that 
Sir Ensor Doone gave (in so many words) 
his consent to my resolve about Lorna. 
This he never did, except by his speech last 
written down ; from which, as he mentioned 
grandchildren, a lawyer perhaps might have 
argued it. Not but what he may have meant 
to bestow on us his blessing ; only that he 
died next day, without taking the trouble 
to do it. 

He called, indeed, for his box of snuff, 
which was a very high thing to take ; and 
which he never took without being in very 
good humor, at least for him. And though 
it would not go up his nostrils, through the 
failure of his breath, he was pleased to have 
it there, and not to think of dying. 

“ Will your honor have it wiped ?” I ask- 
ed him very softly, for the brown appeal- 


LORNA DOONE. 


143 


auce of it spoiled (to my idea) his white 
mustache ; hut he seemed to shake his head, 
and I thought it kept his spirits up. I had 
never before seen any oue do, what all of us 
have to do some day; and it greatly kept 
my spirits down, although it did not so very 
much frighten me. 

For it takes a man but a little while, his 
instinct being of death, perhaps, at least 
as much as of life (which accounts for his 
slaying his fellow-men so, and every other 
creature), it does not take a man very long 
to enter into another man’s death, and bring 
his own mood to suit it. He knows that his 
own is sure to come ; and nature is fond of 
the practice. Hence it came to pass that I, 
after easing my mother’s fears, and seeing a 
little to business, returned (as if drawn by a 
polar needle) to the death-bed of Sir Ensor. 

There was some little confusion, people 
wanting to get away, and people trying to 
come in, from downright curiosity (of all 
things the most hateful), and others making 
great todo, and talking of their own time to 
come, telling their own age, and so on. But 
every one seemed to think, or feel, that I 
had a right to be there ; because the women 
took that view of it. As for Carver and 
Counselor, they were minding their own af- 
fairs, so as to win the succession ; and nev- 
er found it in their business (at least so long 
as I was there) to come near the dying man. 

He, for his part, never asked for any one 
to come near him — not even a priest, nor 
a monk or friar ; but seemed to be going 
his own way, peaceful, and well contented. 
Only the chief of the women said that from 
his face she believed and knew that he liked 
to have me at one side of his bed, and Lorna 
upon the other. An hour or two ere the 
old man died, when only we two were with 
him, he looked at us both very dimly and 
softly, as if he wished to do something for 
us, but had left it now too late. Lorna 
hoped that he wanted to bless us; but he 
only frowned at that, and let his hand drop 
downward, and crooked one knotted finger. 

“He wants something out of the bed, 
dear,” Lorna w T hispered to me ; “ see what 
it is, upon your side, there.” 

I followed the bent of his poor shrunken 
hand, and sought among the pilings; and 
there I felt something hard and sharp, and 
drew it forth and gave it to him. It flashed, 
like the spray of a fountain upon us, in the 
dark winter of the room. He could not take 
it in his hand, but let it hang, as daisies do, 
only making Lorna see that he meant her to 
have it. 

“Why, it is my glass necklace!” Lorna 
cried, in great surprise; “my necklace he 
always promised me ; and from which you 
have got the ring, John. But grandfather 
kept it, because the children wanted to pull 
it from my neck. May I have it now, dear 
grandfather ? Not unless you wish, dear.” 


Darling Lorna wept again, because the old 
man could not tell her (except by one very 
feeble nod) that she was doing what he 
wished. Then she gave to me the trinket, 
for the sake of safety, and I stowed it in my 
breast. He seemed to me to follow this, and 
to be well content with it. 

Before Sir Ensor Doone was buried, the 
greatest frost of the century had set in, with 
its iron hand, and step of stone, on every 
thing. How it came is not my business, 
nor can I explain It ; because I never have 
watched the skies ; as people now begin to 
do when the ground is not to their liking. 
Though of all this I know nothing, and less 
than nothing, I may say (because I ought to 
know something), I can hear what people 
tell me, and I can see before my eyes. 

The strong men broke three good pick- 
axes ere they got through the hard brown 
sod, streaked with little maps of gray, where 
old Sir Ensor was to lie upon his back, await- 
ing the darkness of the judgment -day. It 
was in the little chapel-yard; I will not tell 
the name of it, because we are now such 
Protestants that I might do it an evil turn ; 
only it was the little place where Lorna’s- 
Aunt Sabina lay. 

Here was I, remaining long, with a lit- 
tle curiosity ; because some people told me 
plainly that I must be damned forever by 
a Papist funeral; and here came Lorna, 
scarcely breathing through the thick of 
stuff around her, yet with all her little 
breath steaming on the air like frost. 

I stood apart from the ceremony, in which, 
of course, I was not entitled, either by birth 
or religion, to bear any portion ; and indeed 
it would have been wiser in me to have kept 
aw r ay altogether ; for now there was no one 
to protect me among those wild and lawless 
men; and both Carver and the Counselor 
had vowed a fearful vengeance on me, as I 
heard from Gwenny. They had not dared 
to meddle with me while the chief lay dy- 
ing ; nor was it in their policy, for a short 
time after that, to endanger their succes- 
sion by an open breach with Lorna, whose 
tender age and beauty held so many of the 
youths in thrall. 

The ancient outlaw’s funeral was a grand 
and moving sight ; more, perhaps, from the 
sense of contrast than from that of fitness. 
To see those dark and mighty men, inured 
to all of sin and crime, reckless both of man 
and God, yet now with heads devoutly bent, 
clasped hands, and downcast eyes, following 
the long black coffin of their common ances- 
tor to the place where they must join him 
when their sum of ill was done ; and to see 
the feeble priest chanting over the dead form 
words the living would have laughed at, 
sprinkling with his little broom drops that 
could not purify ; while the children, robed 
in white, swung their smoking censers slow- 
ly over the cold and twilight grave; and 


144 


LORNA DOONE. 


after seeing all, to ask, with a shudder un- 
expressed, 11 Is this the end that God intend- 
ed for a man so proud and strong ?” 

Not a tear was shed upon him, except from 
the sweetest of all sweet eyes ; not a sigh 
pursued him home. Except in hot anger, 
his life had been cold, and bitter, and dis- 
tant ; and now a week had exhausted all 
the sorrow of those around him, a grief 
flowing less from affection than fear. Aged 
men will show his tombstone ; mothers haste 
with their infants by it; children shrink 
from the name upon it; until in time his 
history shall lapse and be forgotten by all, 
except the great Judge and God. 

After all was over, I strode across the 
moors very sadly, trying to keep the cold 
away by virtue of quick movement. Not a 
flake of snow had fallen yet ; all the earth 
was caked and hard, with a dry brown crust 
upon it ; all the sky was banked with dark- 
ness, hard, austere, and frowning. The fog 
of the last three weeks was gone, neither did 
any rime remain ; but all things had a look 
of sameness, and a kind of furzy color. It 
w^as freezing hard and sharp, with a pier- 
cing wind to back it ; and I had observed 
that the holy water froze upon Sir Ensor’s 
coffin. 

One thing struck me with some surprise, 
as I made off for our fireside (with a strong 
determination to heave an ash- tree up the 
chimney-place), and that was how the birds 
were going, rather than flying as they used 
to fly. All the birds were set in one direc- 
tion, steadily journeying westward ; not with 
any heat of speed, neither flying far at once ; 
but all (as if on business bound) partly run- 
ning, partly flying, partly fluttering along ; 
silently, and without a voice, neither prick- 
ing head nor tail. This movement of the 
birds went on even for a week or more; 
every kind of thrushes passed us, every kind 
of wild fowl ; even plovers went away, and 
crows, and snipes, and woodcocks. And be- 
fore half the frost was over, all we had in 
the snowy ditches were hares so tame that 
we could pat them; partridges that came 
to hand, with a dry noise in their crops ; 
heath-poults, making cups of snow; and a 
few poor hopping red-wings, flipping in and 
out the hedge, having lost the power to fly. 
And all the time their great black eyes, set 
with gold around them, seemed to look at 
any man, for mercy and for comfort. 

Annie took a-many of them, all that she 
could find herself, and all the boys would 
bring her; and she made a great hutch near 
the fire, in the back-kitchen chimney-place. 
Here, in spite of our old Betty (who sadly 
wanted to roast them), Annie kept some fifty 
birds, with bread and milk, and raw chopped 
meat, and all the seed she could think of, 
and lumps of rotten apples, placed, to tempt 
them, in the corners. Some got on, and 
some died off; and Annie cried for all that 


died, and buried them under the wood-rick ; 
but I do assure you it was a pretty thing to 
see, when she went to them in the morning. 
There was not a bird but knew her well, after 
one day of comforting; and some would come 
to her hand, and sit, and shut one eye, and 
look at her. Then she used to stroke their 
heads, and feel their breasts, and talk to 
them ; and not a bird of them all was there 
but liked to have it done to him. And I do 
believe they would eat from her hand things 
unnatural to them, lest she should be grieved 
and hurt by not knowing what to do for 

them. One of them was a noble bird, such 
as I never had seen before, of very fine bright 
plumage, and larger than a missel - thrush. 
He was the hardest of all to please ; and yet 
he tried to do his best. I have heard since 

then, from a man who knows all about birds, 
and beasts, and fishes, that he must have 
been a Norwegian bird, called in this country 
a u roller,” who never comes to England but 
in the most tremendous winters. 

Another little bird there was, whom I 
longed to welcome home, and protect from 
enemies — a little bird no native to us, but 
than any native dearer. But lo, in the very 
night which followed old Sir Ensor’s funeral, 
such a storm of snow began as never have I 
heard nor read of, neither could have dream- 
ed it. At what time of night it first began 
is more than I can say — at least from my 
own knowledge, for we all went to bed soon 
after supper, being cold, and not inclined to 
talk. At that time the wind was moaning 
sadly, and the sky as dark as a wood, and 
the straw in the yard swirling round and 
round, and the cows huddling into the great 
cow-house, with their chins upon one an- 
other. But we, being blinder than they, I 
suppose, and not having had a great snow 
for years, made no preparation against the 
storm, except that the lambing ewes were 
in shelter. 

It struck me, as I lay in bed, that we were 
acting foolishly; for an ancient shepherd 
had dropped in and taken supper with us, 
and foretold a heavy fall, and great disaster 
to live stock. He said that he had known 
a frost beginning, just as this had done, with 
a black east wind, after days of raw cold 
fog, and then on the third night of the frost, 
at this very time of year (to wit, on the 15th 
of December), such a snow set in as killed 
half of the sheep, and many even of the red 
deer and the forest ponies. It was three- 
score years agone,* he said ; and cause he 
had to remember it, inasmuch as two of his 
toes had been lost by frost-nip, while he dug 
out his sheep on the other side of the Dunk- 
ery. Hereupon mother nodded at him, hav- 
ing heard from her father about it, and how 
three men had been frozen to death, and how 
badly then' stockings came off from them. 


* The frost of 1625. 


LORNA DOONE. 


145 


Remembering how the old man looked, 
and his manner of listening to the wind and 
shaking his head very ominously (when An- 
nie gave him *a glass of schnapps), I grew 
quite uneasy in my bed, as the room got 
colder and colder ; and I made up my mind, 
if it only pleased God not to send the snow 
till the morning, that every sheep, and horse, 
and cow, ay, and even the poultry, should be 
brought in snug, and with plenty to eat, and 
fodder enough to roast them. 

Alas, what use of man’s resolves, when 
they come a day too late, even if they may 
avail a little when they are most punctual ! 

In the bitter morning I arose, to follow 
out my purpose, knowing the time from the 
force of habit, although the room was so 
dark and gray. An odd white light was on 
the rafters, such as I never had seen before ; 
while all the length of the room was grizzly, 
like the heart of a mouldy oat-rick. I went 
•to the window at once, of course ; and at first 
I could not understand what was doing out- 
side of it. It faced due east (as I may have 
said), with the walnut-tree partly sheltering 
it ; and generally I could see the yard, and 
•the wood-rick, and even the church beyond. 

But now half the lattice was quite block- 
ed up, as if plastered with gray lime ; and lit- 
tle fringes, like ferns, came through, where 
the joining of the lead was ; and in the only 
undarkened part, countless dots came swarm- 
ing, clustering, beating with a soft low sound, 
then gliding down in a slippery manner, not 
as drops of rain do, but each distinct from 
his neighbor. Inside the iron frame (which 
fitted, not to say too comfortably, and went 
along the stone work), at least a peck of 
snow had entered, following its own bend 
and fancy, light as any cobweb. 

With some trouble, and great care, lest 
the ancient frame should yield, I spread the 
lattice open, and saw at once that not a mo- 
ment must be lost to save our stock. All 
the earth was flat with snow, all the air was 
thick with snow ; more than this no man 
could see, for all the world was snowing. 

I shut the window and dressed in haste ; 
and when I entered the kitchen, not even 
Betty, the earliest of all early birds, was 
there. I raked the ashes together a little, 
just to see a spark of warmth ; and then set 
forth to find John Fry, Jem Slocombe, and 
Bill Dadds. But this was easier thought 
than done; for when I opened the court- 
yard door, I was taken up to my knees at 
once, and the power of the drifting cloud 
prevented sight of any thing. However, I 
found ray way to the wood-rick, and there 
got hold of a fine ash-stake cut by myself 
not long ago. With this I plowed along 
pretty well, and thundered so hard at John 
Fry’s door, that he thought it was the Doones 
at least, and cocked his blunderbuss out of 
tthe window. 

John was very loath to come down when 
10 


he saw the meaning of it ; for he valued his 
life more than any thing else, though he tried 
to make out that his wife was to blame. 
But I settled his doubts by telling him that 
I would have him on my shoulder naked, 
unless he came in five minutes ; not that he 
could do much good, but because the other 
men would be sure to skulk if he set them 
the example. With spades, and shovels, 
and pitchforks, and a round of roping, we 
four set forth to dig out the sheep ; and the 
poor things knew* that it was high time. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

THE GREAT WINTER. 

It must have snowed most wonderfully to 
have made that depth of covering in about 
eight hours. For one of Master Stickles’s 
men, who had been out all the night, said 
that no snow began to fall until nearly mid- 
night. And here it was, blocking up the 
doors, stopping the ways, and the water- 
courses, and making it very much worse to 
walk than in a saw-pit newly used. How- 
ever, we trudged along in a line ; I first, and 
the other men after me ; trying to keep my 
track, but finding legs and strength not up 
to it. Most of all, John Fry was groaning ; 
certain that his time was come, and sending 
messages to his wife, and blessings to his 
children. For all this time it was snowing 
harder than it ever had snowed before, so 
far as a man might guess at it ; and the 
leaden depth of the sky came down, like a 
mine turned upside down on us. Not that 
the flakes were so very large ; for I have 
seen much larger flakes in a shower of 
March, while sowing peas; but that there 
was no room between them, neither any re- 
laxing, nor any change of direction. 

Watch, like a good and faithful dog, fol- 
lowed us very cheerfully, leaping out of the 
depth, which took him over his back and 
ears already, even in the level places ; while 
in the drifts he might have sunk to any dis- 
tance out of sight, and never found his way 
up again. However, we helped him now 
and then, especially through the gaps and 
gate-ways ; and so, after a deal of flounder- 
ing, some laughter, and a little swearing, we 
came all safe to the lower meadow, where 
most of our flock was hurdled. 

But behold, there was no flock at all ! 
None, I mean, to be seen anywhere ; only at 
one corner of the field, by the eastern end,, 
where the snow drove in, a great white bil- 
low, as high as a bam and as broad as a 
house. This great drift was rolling and 
curling beneath the violent blast, tufting and 
combing with rustling swirls, and carved 
(as in patterns of cornice) where the groov- 
ing chisel of the wind swept round. Ever 
and again the tempest snatched little whiffs 


146 


LORNA DOONE. 


from the channeled edges, twirled them 
round and made them dance over the chine 
of the monster pile, then let them lie like 
herring-bones, or the seams of sand where 
the tide has been. And all the while from 
the smothering sky, more and more fiercely 
at every blast, came the pelting, pitiless ar- 
rows, winged with murky white, and point- 
ed with the barbs of frost. 

But although, for people who had no 
sheep, the sight was a very fine one (so far, 
at least, as the weather permitted any sight 
at all) ; yet for us, with our flock beneath 
it, this great mount had but little charm. 
Watch began to scratch at once, and to 
howl along the sides of it ; he knew that his 
charge was buried there, and his business 
taken from him. But we four men set to 
in earnest, digging with all our might and 
main, shoveling away at the great white 
pile, and pitching it into the meadow. Each 
man made for himself a cave, scooping at 
the soft cold flux, which slid upon him at 
every stroke, and throwing it out behind 
him, in piles of castled fancy. At last we 
drove our tunnels in (for we worked in- 
deed for the lives of us), and all converging 
toward the middle, held our tools and list- 
ened. 

The other men heard nothing at all; or 
declared that they heard nothing, being anx- 
ious now to abandon the matter, because of 
the chill in their feet and kuees. But I said, 
“ Go, if you choose, all of you. I will work 
it out by myself, you pie-crusts !” and upon 
that they gripped their shovels, being more 
or less of Englishmen; and the least drop 
of English blood is worth the best of any 
other when it comes to lasting out. 

But before we began again, I laid my head 
well into the chamber ; and there I heard a 
faint “ ma-a-ah,” coming through some ells 
of snow, like a plaintive buried hope, or a 
last appeal. I shouted aloud to cheer him 
up, for I knew what sheep it was — to wit, 
the most valiant of all the wethers, who had 
met me when I came home from London, 
and been so glad to see me. And then we 
all fell to again ; and very soon we hauled 
him out. Watch took charge of him at once, 
with an air of the noblest patronage, lying 
on his frozen fleece, and licking all his face 
and feet, to restore his warmth to him. 
Then fighting Tom jumped up at once, and 
made a little butt at Watch, as if nothing 
had ever ailed him, and then set off to a 
shallow place, and looked for something to 
nibble at. 

Farther in, and close under the bank, 
where they had huddled themselves for 
warmth, we found all the rest of the poor 
sheep packed, as closely as if they were in 
a great pie. It was strange to observe how 
their vapor, and breath, and the moisture 
exuding from their wool, had scooped, as it 
were, a covered room for them, lined with a 


ribbing of deep yellow snow. Also the 
churned snow beneath their feet was as yel- 
low as gamboge. Two or three of the weak- 
lier hoggets were dead from want of air, and 
from pressure; but more than three -score 
were as lively as ever, though cramped and 
stiff for a little while. 

“However shall us get ’em home?” John 
Fry asked in great dismay, when we had 
cleared about a dozen of them ; which we 
were forced to do very carefully, so as not 
to fetch the roof down. “No manner of 
maning to draive ’un, drough all they girt 
driftnesses.” 

“You see to this place, John,” I replied, 
as we leaned on our shovels a moment, and 
the sheep came rubbing round us : “ let no 
more of them out for the present ; they are 
better where they be. Watch ! here, boy, 
keep them !” 

Watch came, with his little scut of a tail 
cocked as sharp as duty ; and I set him at 
the narrow mouth of the great snow antre. 
All the sheep sidled away, and got closer, 
that the other sheep might be bitten first, 
as the foolish things imagine ; whereas no 
good sheep-dog even so much as lips a sheep 
to turn it. 

Then of the outer sheep (all now snowed 
and frizzled like a lawyer’s wig) I took the 
two finest and heaviest, and with one be- 
neath my right arm, and the other beneath 
my left, I went straight home to the upper 
sheppey, and set them inside, and fastened 
them. Sixty-and-six I took home in that 
way, two at a time on each journey; and 
the work grew harder and harder each time, 
as the drifts of the snow were deepening. 
No other man should meddle with them : I 
was resolved to try my strength against the 
strength of the elements; and try it I did, 
ay, and proved it. A certain fierce delight 
burned in me, as the struggle grew harder ; 
but rather would I die than yield ; and at 
last I finished it. People talk of it to this 
day : but none can tell what the labor was, 
who have not felt that snow and wind. 

Of the sheep upon the mountain, and the 
sheep upon the western farm, and the cattle 
on the upper barrows, scarcely one in ten 
was saved, do what we would for them. And 
this was not through any neglect (now that 
our wits were sharpened), but from the pure 
impossibility of finding them at all. That 
great snow never ceased a moment for three 
days and nights ; and then when all the earth 
was filled, and the topmost hedges were un- 
seen, and the trees broke down with weight 
(wherever the wind had not lightened them), 
a brilliant sun broke forth and showed the 
loss of all our customs. 

All our house was quite snowed up, ex- 
cept where we had purged a way by dint of 
constant shovelings. The kitchen was as 
dark, and darker, than the cider-cellar, and 
long lines of furrowed scollops ran even up 


LORNA DOONE. 


147 


to the chimney-stacks. Several windows 
fell right inward, through the weight of the 
snow against them ; and the few that stood 
bulged in, and bent like an old bruised lan- 
tern. We were obliged to cook by candle- 
light; we were forced to read by candle- 
light ; as for baking, we could not do it, be- 
cause the oven was too chill ; and a load of 
fagots only brought a little wet down the 
sides of it. 

For when the sun burst forth at last upon 
that world of white, what he brought was 
neither warmth, nor cheer, nor hope of soft- 
eniug ; only a clearer shaft of cold, from the 
violent depths of sky. Long-drawn alleys 
of white haze seemed to lead toward him, 
yet such as he could not come down, with 
any warmth remaiuiug. Broad white cur- 
tains of the frost-fog looped around the low- 
er sky, on the verge of hill and valley, and 
above the laden trees. Only round the sun 
himself, and the spot of heaven he claimed, 
clustered a bright purple -blue, clear, and 
calm, and deep. 

That night such a frost ensued as we had 
never dreamed of, neither read in ancient 
books, or histories of Frobisher. The ket- 
tle by the fire froze, and the crock upon the 
hearth-cheeks ; many men were killed, and 
cattle rigid in their head-ropes. Then I 
heard that fearful sound which never I had 
heard before, neither since have heard (ex- 
cept during that same winter), the sharp 
yet solemn sound of trees burst open by the 
frost -blow. Our great walnut lost three 
branches, and has been dying ever since ; 
though growing meanwhile, as the soul does. 
And the aucient oak at the cross was rent, 
and many score of ash-trees. But why should 
I tell all this? the people who have have 
not seen it (as I have) will only make faces, 
and disbelieve, till such another frost comes, 
which perhaps may never be. 

This terrible weather kept Tom Faggus 
from comiug near our house for weeks; at 
which, indeed, I was not vexed a quarter so 
much as Annie was ; for I had never half 
approved of him as a husband for my sister, 
in spite of his purchase from Squire Bassett, 
and the grant of the Royal pardon. It may 
be, however, that Annie took the same view 
of my love for Lorna, and could not augur 
well of it; but if so, she held her peace, 
though I was not so sparing. For many 
things contributed to make me less good- 
humored now than my real nature was ; and 
the very least of all these things would have 
been enough to make some people cross, and 
rude, and fractious. I mean the red and 
painful chapping of my face and hands, from 
working in the snow all day, and lying in 
the frost all night. For being of a fair com- 
plexion, and a ruddy nature, and pretty 
plump withal, and fed on plenty of hot vict- 
uals, and always forced by my mother to sit 
nearer the fire than I wished, it was won- 


derful to see how the cold ran revel on my 
cheeks and knuckles. And I feared that 
Lorna (if it should ever please God to stop 
the snowing) might take this for a proof of 
low and rustic blood and breeding. 

And this, I say, was the smallest thing; 
for it was far more serious that we were los- 
ing half our stock, do all we would to shel- 
ter them. Even the horses in the stables 
(mustered altogether, for the sake of breath 
and steaming) had long icicles from their 
muzzles, almost every morning. But of all 
things the very gravest, to my apprehension, 
was the impossibility of hearing, or having 
any token, of or from my loved one. Not 
that those three days alone of snow (tremen- 
dous as it was) could have blocked the coun- 
try so; but that the sky had never ceased, 
for more than two days at a time, for full 
three weeks thereafter, to pour fresh piles 
of fleecy mantle ; neither had the wind re- 
laxed a single day from shaking them. As 
a rule, it snowed all day, cleared up at night, 
and froze intensely, with the stars as bright 
as jewels, earth spread out in lustrous twi- 
light, and the sounds in the air as sharp and 
crackling as artillery, then in the morning 
snow again, before the sun could come to 
help. 

It mattered not what way the wind was. 
Often and often the vanes went round, and 
we hoped for change of weather : the only 
change was that it seemed (if possible) to 
grow colder. Indeed, after a week or so, the 
wind would regularly box the compass (as 
the sailors call it) in the course of every day, 
following where the sun should be, as if to 
make a mock of him. And this, of course, 
immensely added to the peril of the drifts ; 
because they shifted every day, and no skill 
or care might learn them. 

I believe it was on Epiphany morning, or 
somewhere about that period, when Lizzie 
ran into the kitchen to me, where I was 
thawing my goose-grease, with the dogs 
among the ashes — the live dogs, I mean, not 
the iron ones, for them we had given up long 
ago — and having caught me, by way of won- 
der (for generally I was out shoveling long 
before my “young lady” had her night-cap 
off), she positively kissed me, for the sake of 
warming her lips, perhaps, or because she 
had something proud to say. 

“ You great fool, John,” said my lady, as 
Annie and I used to call her, on account of 
her airs and graces ; “ what a pity you never 
read, John !” 

“ Much use, I should think, in reading !” I 
answered, though pleased with her conde- 
scension; “ read, I suppose, with roof coming 
in, and only this chimney left sticking out 
of the snow !” 

“The very time to read, John,” said Liz- 
zie, looking grander; “our worst troubles 
are the need, whence knowledge can deliver 
us.” 


148 


LORNA DOONE. 


“Amen !” I cried out; “are you parson or 
clerk ? Whichever you are, good-morning.” 

Thereupon I was bent on my usual round 
(a very small one nowadays), but Eliza took 
me with both hands, and I stopped of course; 
for I could not bear to shake the child, even 
in play, for a moment, because her back was 
tender. Then she looked up at me with her 
beautiful eyes, so large, unhealthy, and deli- 
cate, and strangely shadowing outward, as 
if to spread their meaning ; aud she said, 

“Now, John, this is no time to joke. I 
was almost frozen in bed last night; and 
Annie like an icicle. Feel how cold my 
hands are. Now, will you listen to what I 
have to read about climates ten times worse 
than this ; and where none but clever men 
can live ?” 

“ Impossible for me to listen now. I have 
hundreds of things to see to ; but I will list- 
en after breakfast to your foreign climates, 
child. Now attend to mother’s hot coffee.” 

She looked a little disappointed, but she 
knew what I had to do ; and after all she 
was not so utterly unreasonable, although 
she did read books. And when I had done 
my morning’s work, I listened to her patient- 
ly; and it was out of my power to think 
that all she said was foolish. 

For I knew common sense pretty well by 
this time, whether it happened to be my own 
or any other person’s, if clearly laid before 
me. And Lizzie had a particular way of set- 
ting forth very clearly whatever she wished 
to express and enforce. But the queerest 
part of it all was this : that if she could but 
have dreamed for a moment what would be 
the first application made by me of her les- 
son, she would rather have bitten her tongue 
off than help me to my purpose. 

She told me that in the “Arctic Regions,” 
as they call some places a long way north, 
where the great bear lies all across the heav- 
ens, and no sun is up for whole months at a 
time, and yet where people will go explor- 
ing, out of pure contradiction, and for the 
sake of novelty, and love of being frozen — • 
that here they always had such winters as 
we were having now. It never ceased to 
freeze she said, and it never ceased to snow, 
except when It was too cold ; and then all the 
air was choked with glittering spikes, and a 
man’s skin might come off of him before he 
could ask the reason. Nevertheless the peo- 
ple there (although the snow was fifty feet 
deep, and all their breath fell behind them 
frozen, like a log of wood dropped from their 
shoulders) managed to get along, and make 
the time of the year to each other, by a lit- 
tle cleverness. For seeing how the snow was 
spread lightly over every thing, covering up 
the hills and valleys, and the foreskin of the 
sea, they contrived a way to crown it, aud 
to glide like a flake along. Through the 
sparkle of the whiteuess, and the wreaths of 
windy tossings, and the ups and downs of 


cold, any man might get along with a boat 
on either foot to prevent his sinking. 

She told me how these boats were made ; 
very strong and very light, of ribs with skin 
across them; five feet long and one foot 
wide, and turned up at each end, even as a 
canoe is. But she did not tell me, nor did 
I give it a moment’s thought myself, how 
hard it was to walk upon them without early 
practice. Then she told me another thing 
equally useful to me ; although I would not 
let her see how much I thought about it. 
And this concerned the use of sledges, and 
their power of gliding, and the lightness of 
their following ; all of which I could see at 
once, through knowledge of our own farm- 
sleds, which we employ in lieu of wheels, 
used in flatter districts. When I had heard 
all this from her, a mere chit of a girl as she 
was, unfit to make a snowball even, or to fry 
snow-pancakes, I looked down on her with 
amazement, and began to wish a little that 
I had given more time to books. 

But God shapes all our fitness, and gives 
each man his meaning, even as he guides the 
wavering lines of snow descending. Our 
Eliza was meant for books ; our dear Annie 
for loving aud cooking; I, John Ridd, for 
sheep, and wrestling, and the thought of 
Lorn a ; and mother to love all three of us, 
and to make the best of her children. And 
now, if I must tell the truth, as at every 
page I try to do (though God knows it is 
hard enough), I had felt through all this 
weather, though my life was Lorna’s, some- 
thing of a satisfaction in so doing duty to 
my kindest and best of mothers, and to none 
but her. For (if you come to think of it) 
a man’s young love is very pleasant, very 
sweet, and tickling ; and takes him through 
the core of heart, without his knowing how 
or why. Then he dwells upon it sideways, 
without people looking, and builds up all 
sorts of fancies, growing hot with working 
so at his own imaginings. So his love is a 
crystal Goddess, set upon an obelisk; and 
whoever will not bow the knee (yet without 
glancing at her), the lover makes it a sacred 
rite either to kick or to stick him. I am 
not speaking of me and Lorna, but of com- 
mon people. 

Then (if you come to think again) lo — or 
I will not say lo ! for no one can behold it 
— only feel, or but remember, what a real 
mother is. Ever loving, ever soft, ever turn- 
ing sin to goodness, vices into virtues ; blind 
to all nine-tenths of wrong ; through a tele- 
scope beholding (though herself so nigh to 
them) faintest decimal of promise, even in 
her vilest child. Ready to thank God again, 
as when her babe was born to her ; leaping 
(as at kingdom come) at a wandering sylla- 
ble of Gospel for her lost one. 

All this our mother was to us, and even 
more than all of this; and hence I felt a 
pride and joy in doing my sacred duty to- 


LORNA DOONE. 


149 


ward her, now that the weather compelled 
me. And she was as grateful and delighted 
as if she had no more claim upon me than a 
stranger’s sheep might have. Yet from time 
to time I groaued within myself aud by my- 
self at thinking of my sad debarment from 
the sight of Lorn a, and of all that might 
have happened to her, now she had no pro- 
tection. 

Therefore I fell to at once, upon that hiut 
from Lizzie ; and being used to thatching- 
work, and the making of traps, and so on, 
before very lorig I built myself a pair of 
strong and light snow-shoes, framed with 
ash and ribbed of withy, with half-tanned 
calf-skin stretched across, and an inner sole 
to support my feet. At first I could not 
walk at all, but floundered about most pite- 
ously, catching one shoe in the other, and 
both of them in the snow-drifts, to the great 
amusement of the girls, who were come to 
look at me. But after a while I grew more 
expert, discovering what my errors were, 
and altering the inclination of the shoes 
themselves according to a print which Liz- 
zie found in a book of adventures. And this 
made such a difference, that I crossed the 
farm -yard and came back again (though 
turning was the worst thing of all) without 
so much as falling once, or getting my staff 
entangled. 

But oh, the aching of my ancles when I 
went to bed that night! I was forced to 
help myself up stairs with a couple of mop- 
sticks; and I rubbed the joints with neats- 
foot oil, which comforted them greatly. 
And likely enough I would have abandoned 
any further trial, but for Lizzie’s ridicule 
and pretended sympathy, asking if the strong 
John Ridd would have old Betty to lean 
upon. Therefore I set to again, with a fixed 
resolve not to notice pain or stiffness, but 
to warm them out of me. And sure enough, 
before dark that day I could get along pret- 
ty freely : especially improving every time, 
after leaving off and resting. The astonish- 
ment of poor John Fry, Bill Dadds, and Jem 
Slocombe, when they saw me coming down 
the hill upon them in the twilight, where 
they were clearing the furze-rick and truss- 
ing it for cattle, was more than I can tell 
you ; because they did not let me see it, but 
ran away with one accord, and floundered 
into a snow-drift. They believed, and so 
did every one else (especially when I grew 
able to glide along pretty rapidly), that I 
had stolen Mother Melldrum’s sieves, on 
which she was said to fly over the foreland 
at midnight every Saturday. 

Upon the following day I held some coun- 
cil with my mother ; not liking to go with- 
out her permission, yet scarcely daring to 
ask for it. But here she disappointed me, 
on the right side of disappointment; saying 
that she had seen my pining (which she nev- 
er could have done, because I had been too 


hard at work), and rather than watch me 
grieving so for somebody or other who now 
was all in all to me, I might go upon my 
course, and God’s protection go with me! 
At this I was amazed, because it was not 
at all like mother ; and knowing how well I 
had behaved ever since the time of our snow- 
ing up, I was a little moved to tell her that 
she could not understand me. However, 
my sense of duty kept me, and my knowl- 
edge of the catechism, from saying such a 
thing as that, or even thinking twice of it. 
And so I took her at her word, which she 
was not prepared for ; and telling her how 
proud I was of her trust in Providence, and 
how I could run in my new snow-shoes, I 
took a short pipe in my mouth, and started 
forth accordingly. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

NOT TOO SOON. 

When I started on my road across the 
hills and valleys (which now were pretty 
much alike), the utmost I could hope to do 
was to gain the crest of hills, and look into 
the Doone Glen. Hence I might at least 
descry whether Lorna still was safe, by the 
six nests still remaining, and the view of the 
Captain’s house. When I was come to the 
open country, far beyond the sheltered home- 
stead, and in the full brunt of the wind, the 
keen blast of the cold broke on me, and the 
mighty breadth of snow. Moor and highland, 
field and common, cliff and vale and water- 
course, over all the rolling folds of misty 
whi te were flung. There was nothing square 
or jagged left, there was nothing perpendic- 
ular ; all the rugged lines were eased, and 
all the breaches smoothly filled. Curves, 
and mounds, and rounded heavings took the 
place of rock and stump ; and all the coun- 
try looked as if a woman’s hand had been 
on it. 

Through the sparkling breadth of white, 
which seemed to glance my eyes away, and 
past the humps of laden trees, bowing their 
backs like a woodman, I contrived to get 
along, half sliding and half walking, in 
places where a plain - shodden man must 
have sunk, and waited freezing, till the thaw 
should come to him. For although there 
had been such violent frost every night upon 
the snow, the snow itself, having never thaw- 
ed, even for an hour, had never coated over. 
Hence it was as soft and light as if all had 
fallen yesterday. In places where no drift 
had been, but rather off than on to them, 
three feet was the least of depth : but where 
the wind had chased it round, or any draught 
led like a funnel, or any thing opposed it, 
there you might very safely say that it ran 
up to twenty feet, or thirty, or even fifty, 
and I believe sometimes a hundred. 


150 


LORNA DOONE. 


At last I got to my spy-bill (as I had be- 
gun to call it), although Iuever should have 
known it hut for what it looked on. And 
even to know this last again required all the 
eyes of love, soever sharp and vigilant. For 
all the beautiful Glen Doone (shaped from 
out the mountains, as if on purpose for the 
Doones, and looking in the summer-time 
like a sharp-cut vase of green) now was be- 
snowed half up the sides, and at either end 
so, that it was more like the white basins 
wherein we boil plum -puddings. Not a 
patch of grass was there, not a black branch 
of a tree ; all was white ; and the little riv- 
er flowed beneath an arch of snow, if it 
managed to flow at all. 

Now this was a great surprise to me ; not 
only because I believed Glen Doone to be a 
place outside all frost, but also because I 
thought perhaps that it was quite impossible 
to be cold near Lorna. And now it struck 
me all at once that perhaps her ewer was 
frozen (as mine had been for the last three 
weeks, requiring embers around it), and 
perhaps her window w r ould not shut, any 
more than mine w r ould, and perhaps she 
wanted blankets. This idea worked me up 
to such a chill of sympathy, that seeing no 
Doones now about, and doubting if any guns 
would go off in this state of the weather, and 
knowing that no man could catch me up 
(except with shoes like mine), I even re- 
solved to slide the cliffs, and bravely go to 
Lorna. 

It helped me much in this resolve, that 
the snow came on again, thick enough to 
blind a man who had not spent his time 
among it, as I had done now for days and 
days. Therefore I took my neats -foot oil, 
which now was clogged like honey, and rub- 
bed it hard into my leg -joints, so far as I 
could reach them. And then I set my back 
and elbows well against a snow-drift hang- 
ing far adown the cliff, and saying some of 
the Lord’s Prayer, threw myself on Provi- 
dence. Before there was time to think or 
dream, I landed very beautifully upon a 
ridge of run-up snow in a quiet corner. My 
good shoes, or boots, preserved me from go- 
ing far beneath it ; though one of them was 
sadly strained, where a grub had gnawed 
the ash in the early summer-time. Hav- 
ing set myself aright, and being in good 
spirits, I made boldly across the valley 
(where the snow was furrowed hard), being 
now afraid of nobody. 

If Lornaliad looked out of the window, 
she would not have known me, with those 
boots upon my feet, and a well- cleaned 
sheep-skin over me, bearing my own (J. R.) 
in red just between my shoulders, but cov- 
ered now in snow-flakes. The house was 
partly drifted up, though not so much as 
ours was ; and I crossed the little stream al- 
most without knowing that it was under 
me. At first, being pretty safe against in- 


terference from the other huts, by virtue of 
the blinding snow and the difficulty of walk- 
ing, I examined all the windows ; but these 
were coated so with ice, like ferns and flow- 
ers and dazzling stars, that no one could so 
much as guess what might be inside of them. 
Moreover, I was afraid of prying narrowly 
into them, as it was not a proper thing 
where a maiden might be : only I wanted to 
know just this, whether she were there or 
not. 

Taking nothing by this movement, I was 
forced, much against my will, to venture to 
the door and knock in a hesitating manner, 
not being sure but what my answer might 
be the mouth of a carbine. However, it was 
not so ; for I heard a pattering of feet and a 
whispering going on, and then a shrill voice 
through the key-hole asking, “Who’s there ?” 

“ Only me, John Ridd,” I answered ; upon 
which I heard a little laughter, and a little 
sobbing, or something that was like it ; and 
then the door was opened about a couple of 
inches, with a bar behind it still ; and then 
the little voice went on, 

“ Put thy finger in, young man, with the 
old ring on it. But mind thee, if it be the 
wrong one, thou shalt never draw it back 
again.” 

Laughing at Gwenny’s mighty threat, I 
showed my finger in the opening; upon 
which she let me in, and barred the door 
again like lightning. 

“What is the meaning of all this, Gwen- 
ny ?” I asked, as I slipped afiout on the floor, 
for I could not stand there firmly with my 
great snow-shoes on. 

“Maning enough, and bad maning too,” 
the Cornish girl made answer. “ Us be shut 
in here, and starving, and durstn’t let any 
body in upon us. I wish thou wer’t good 
to ate, young man : I could manage most of 
thee.” 

I was so frightened by her eyes, full of 
wolfish hunger, that I could only say, “ Good 
God!” having never seen the like before. 
Then drew I forth a large piece of bread, 
which I had brought in case of accidents, 
and placed it in her hands. She leaped at 
it as a starving dog leaps at sight of his 
supper, and she set her teeth in it, and then 
withheld it from her lips with something 
very like an oath at her own vile greedi- 
ness ; and then away around the corner with 
it, no doubt for her young mistress. I mean- 
while was occupied, to the best of my abil- 
ity, in taking my show -shoes off, yet won- 
dering much within myself why Lorna did 
not come to me. 

But presently I knew the cause ; for Gwen- 
ny called me, and I ran, and found my dar- 
ling quite unable to say so much as, “ John, 
how are yon?” Between the hunger, and 
the cold, and the excitement of my coming, 
she had fainted away, and lay back on a 
chair, as white as the snow around us. In 


LORNA DOONE. 


betwixt her delicate lips Gwenny was thrust- ' 
mg with all her strength the hard brown 
crust of the rye bread which she had snatched 
from me so. 

“ Get water, or get snow,” I said ; “ don’t 
you know what fainting is, you very stupid 
child ?” 

“ Never heered on it in Carnwall,” she an- 
swered, trusting still to the bread ; “ be un 
the same as bleeding ?” 

“ It will be directly, if you go on squeez- 
ing away with that crust so. Eat a piece : 
I have got some more. Leave my darling 
now to me.” 

Hearing that I had some more, the starving 
girl could resist no longer, but tore it in two, 
and had swallowed half before I had coaxed 
my Lorna back to sense, and hope, and joy, 
and love. 

“I never expected to see you again. I 
had made up my mind to die, John ; and to 
die without your knowing it.” 

As I repelled this fearful thought in a 
manner highly fortifying, the tender hue 
flowed back again into her famished cheeks 
and lips, aud a softer brilliance glistened 
from the depth of her dark eyes. She gave 
me one little shrunken hand, and I could not 
help a tear for it. 

“ After all, Mistress Lorna,” I said, pre- 
tending to be gay, for a smile might do her 
good, “you do not love me as Gwenny does; 
for she even wanted to eat me.” 

“Aud shall, afore I have done, young 
man,” Gwenny answered, laughing; “you 
come in here with they red chakes, and 
make us think o’ sirloin.” 

“ Eat up your bit of brown bread, Gwen- 
ny. It is not good enough for your mis- 
tress. Bless her heart, I have something 
here such as she never tasted the like of, 
being in such appetite. Look here, Lorna ; 
smell it first. I have had it ever since 
Twelfth -day, and kept it all the time for 
you. Annie made it. That is enough to 
warrant it good cooking.” 

And then I showed my great mince -pie 
in a bag of tissue-paper, and I told them 
how the mince -meat was made of golden 
pippins finely shred, with the under-cut of 
the sirloin, aud spice and fruit according- 
ly and far beyond my knowledge. But Lor- 
na would not touch a morsel until she had 
thanked God for it, and given me the kind- 
est kiss, and put a piece in Gwenny’s mouth. 

I have eaten many things myself, with 
very great enjoyment, and keen perception 
of their merits, and some thanks to God for 
them. But I never did enjoy a thing that 
had found its way between my own lips half 
or even a quarter as much as I now enjoyed 
beholding Lorna, sitting proudly upward 
(to show that she was faint no more), enter- 
ing into that mince-pie, and moving all her 
pearls of teeth (inside her little mouth-place) 
^exactly as I told her. For I was afraid lest | 


she should be too fast in going through it, 
and cause herself more damage so than she 
got of nourishment. But I had no need to 
fear at all, and Lorna could not help laugh- 
ing at me for thinking that she had no self- 
control. 

Some creatures require a deal of food (I 
myself among the number), and some can 
do with a very little; making, no doubt, 
the best of it. And I have often noticed 
that the plunfpest and most perfect women 
never eat so hard and fast as the skinny 
and three-cornered ones. These last be oft- 
en ashamed of it, and eat most when the 
men be absent. Hence it came to pass that 
Lorna, being the loveliest of all maidens, 
had as much as she could do to finish her 
own half of pie ; whereas Gwenny Carfax 
(though generous more than greedy) ate up 
hers without wiuking, after finishing the 
brown loaf; and then I begged to know the 
meaning of this state of things. 

“ The meaning is sad enough,” said Lorna; 
“and I see no way out of it. We are both 
to be starved until I let them do what they 
like with me.” 

“ That is to say, until you choose to marry 
Carver Doone, and be slowly killed by him.” 

“ Slowly ! No, John, quickly. I hate him 
so intensely, that less than a week would kill 
me.” 

“ Not a doubt of that,” said Gwenny : “ oh, 
she hates him nicely then : but not half so 
much as I do.” 

I told them both that this state of things 
could be endured no longer ; on which point 
they agreed with me, but saw no means to 
help it. For even if Lorna could make up 
her mind to come away with me and live at 
Plover’s Barrows farm, under my good moth- 
er’s care, as I had urged so often, behold the 
snow was all around us, heaped as high as 
mountains; and how could any delicate 
maiden ever get across it ? 

Then I spoke, with a strange tingle upon 
both sides of my heart, knowing that this 
undertaking was a serious one for all, and 
might burn our farm down. 

“ If I warrant to take you safe, and with- 
out much fright or hardship, Lorna, will you 
come with me ?” 

“ To be sure I will, dear,” said my beauty, 
with a smile, and a glance to follow it ; “I 
have small alternative — to starve, or go with 
you, John.” 

“ Gwenny, have you courage for it ? Will 
you come with your young mistress ?” 

“Will I stay behind?” cried Gwenny, in 
a voice that settled it. And so we began to 
arrange about it ; and I was much excited. 
It was useless now to leave it longer: if 
it could be done at all, it could not be too 
quickly done. It was the Counselor who 
had ordered after all other schemes had 
failed, that his niece should have no food 
uutil she would obey him. He had strict- 


LORNA DOONE. 


x.y watclied the house, taking turns with 
Carver, to insure that none came nigh it 
bearing food or comfort. But this evening 
they had thought it needless to remain on 
guard ; and it would have been impossible, 
because themselves were busy offering high 
festival to all the valley, in right of their 
own coinmaudership. And Gwenny said 
that nothing made her so nearly mad with 
appetite as the account she received from a 
woman of all the dishes preparing. Never- 
theless, she had answered bravely— 

“ Go and tell the Counselor, and go and 
tell the Carver, who sent you to spy upon 
ns, that we shall have a finer dish than any- 
set before them.” And so, in truth, they 
did, although so little dreaming it ; for no 
Doone that was ever born, however much 
of a Carver, might vie with our Annie for 
mince-meat. 

Now while we sat, reflecting much, and 
talking a good deal more, in spite of all the 
cold — for I never was in a hurry to go, when 
I had Lorna with me — she said, in her sil- 
very voice, which always led me so along, 
as if I were slave to a beautiful bell, 

“Now, John, we are wasting time, dear. 
You have praised my hair till it curls with 
pride, and my eyes till you can not see them, 
even if they are brown diamonds, which I 
have heard for the fiftieth time at least; 
though I never saw such a jewel. Don’t 
you think that it is high time to put on 
your snow-shoes, John ?” 

“ Certainly not,” I answered, “ till we have 
settled something more. I was so cold when 
I came in ; and now I am as warm as a crick- 
et. And so are you, you lively soul ; though 
you are not upon my hearth yet.” 

“Remember, John,” said Lorna, nestling 
for a moment to me; “the severity of the 
weather makes a great difference between 
us. And you must never take advantage.” 

“ I quite understand all that, dear. And 
the harder it freezes the better, while that 
understanding continues. Now do try to 
be serious.” 

“ I try to be serious ! And I have been 
trying fifty times, and could not bring you 
to it, J ohn ! Although I am sure the situ- 
ation, as the Counselor always says, at the 
beginning of a speech, the situation, to say 
the least, is serious enough for any thing. 
Come, Gwenny, imitate him.” 

Gwenny was famed for her imitation of 
the Counselor making a speech ; and she 
began to shake her hair, and mount upon a 
footstool ; but I really could not have this, 
though even Lorna ordered it. The truth 
was that my darling maiden was in such 
wild spirits at seeing me so unexpected, and 
at the prospect of release, and of what she 
had never known, quiet life and happiness, 
that, like all warm and loving natures, she 
could scarce control herself. 

“Come to this frozen window, John, and 


see them light the stack-fire. They will lit- 
tle know who looks at them. Now be very 
good, John. You stay in that corner, dear, 
and I will stand on this side ; and try to- 
breathe yourself a peep-hole through the 
lovely spears and banners. Oh, you don’t 
know how to do it. I must do it for you. 
Breathe three times like that, and that; 
and then you rub it with your fingers be- 
fore it has time to freeze again.” 

All this she did so beautifully, with her 
lips put up like cherries, and her fingers 
bent half back, as only girls can bend them, 
and her little waist thrown out against the 
white of the snowed-up window, that I made 
her do it three times over ; and I stopped 
her every time, and let it freeze again, that 
so she might be the longer. Now I knew 
that all her love was mine, every bit as 
much as mine was hers; yet I must have 
her to show it, dwelling upon every proof, 
lengthening out all certainty. Perhaps the 
jealous heart is loath to own a life worth 
twice its own. Be that as it may, I know 
that we thawed the window nicely. 

And then I saw far down the stream (or 
rather down the bed of it, for there was no 
stream visible), a little form of fire arising,, 
red, and dark, and flickering. Presently it 
caught on something, and went upward bold- 
ly ; and then it struck into many forks, and 
then it fell, and rose again. 

“Do you know what all that is, John?’ r 
asked Lorna, smiling cleverly at the manner 
of my staring. 

“ How on earth should I know ? Papists 
burn Protestants in the flesh ; and Protest- 
ants burn Papists in effigy, as we mock them. 
Lorna, are they going to burn any one to- 
night ?” 

“ No, you dear. I must rid you of these 
things. I see that you are bigoted. The 
Doones are firing Dunkery beacon, to cele- 
brate their new captain.” 

“ But how could they bring it here through 
the snow ? If they have sledges, I can do 
nothing.” 

“ They brought it before the snow began. 
The moment poor grandfather was gone, 
even before his funeral, the young men, hav- 
ing none to check them, began at once upon 
it. They had always borne a grudge against 
it; not that it ever did them harm, but 
because it seemed so insolent. . 1 Can’t a gen- 
tleman go home without a smoke behind 
him V I have often heard them saying. And 
though they have done it no serious harm, 
since they threw the firemen on the fire 
many, many years ago, they have often prom- 
ised to bring it here for their candle ; and 
now they have done it. Ah, now look ! The 
tar is kindled.” 

Though Lorna took it so in joke, I look- 
ed upon it very gravely, knowing that this 
heavy outrage to the feelings of the neigh- 
borhood would cause more stir than a hun- 


LORNA DOONE. 


153 . 


dred sheep stolen, or a score of houses sack- j 
ed. Not of course that the beacon was of 
the smallest use to any one, neither stopped 
any body from stealing : nay, rather it was 
like the parish knell, which begins when all 
is over, and depresses all the survivors ; yet 
I knew that we valued it, and were proud, 
and spoke of it as a mighty institution ; and 
even more than that, our vestry had voted, 
within the last two years, seven shillings 
and sixpence to pay for it, in proportion 
with other parishes. And one of the men 
who attended to it, or at least who was paid 
for doing so, was our Jem Slocombe’s grand- 
father. 

However, in spite of all my regrets, the 
fire went up very merrily, blazing red and 
white and yellow, as it leaped on different 
things. And the light danced on the snow- 
drifts with a misty lilac hue. I was aston- 
ished at its burning in such mighty depths 
of snow ; but Gwenny said that the wicked 
men had been three days hard at work, 
clearing, as it were, a cock-pit, for their fire 
to have its way. And now they had a 
mighty pile, which must have covered five 
land-yards square, heaped up to a goodly 
height, and eager to take fire. 

In this I saw great obstacle to what I 
wished to manage. For when this pyramid 
should be kindled thoroughly, and pouring 
light and blazes round, would not all the 
valley be like a white room full of candles ? 
Thinking thus, I was half inclined to abide 
my time for another night ; and then my 
second thoughts convinced me that I would 
be a fool in this. For lo, what an opportu- 
nity ! All the Doones would be drunk, of 
course, in about three hours’ time, and get- 
ting more and more in drink as the night 
went on. As for the fire, it must sink in 
about three hours or more, and only cast un- 
certain shadows friendly to my purpose. And 
then the outlaws must cower round it as the 
cold increased on them, helping the weight 
of the liquor; and in their jollity any noise 
would be cheered as a false alarm. Most of 
all, and which decided once for all my action, 
when these wild and reckless villains should 
be hot with ardent spirits, what was door or 
wall to stand betwixt them and my Lorna ? 

This thought quickened me so much that 
I touched my darling reverently, and told 
her in a few short words how I hoped to 
manage it. 

“ Sweetest, in two hours’ time, I shall be 
again with you. Keep the bar up, and have 
Gwenny ready to answer any one. You are 
safe while they are dining, dear, and drink- 
ing healths, and all that stuff; and before 
they have done with that, I shall be again 
with you. Have every thing you care to 
take in a very little compass ; and Gwenny 
must have no baggage. I shall knock loud, 
and then wait a little : and then knock twice 
very softly.” 


With this, I folded her in my arms, and 
she looked frightened at me, not having per- 
ceived her danger ; and then I told Gwenny 
over again what I had told her mistress ; but 
she only nodded her head, and said, “ Young 
man, go and teach thy grandmother.” 

o 

CHAPTER XLIY. 

BROUGHT HOME AT LAST. 

To my great delight, I found that the 
weather, not often friendly to lovers, and 
lately seeming so hostile, had in the most 
important matter done me a signal service. 
For when I had promised to take my love 
from the power of those wretches, the only 
way of escape apparent lay through the 
main Doone-gate. For though I might 
climb the cliffs myself, especially with the 
snow to aid me, I durst not try to fetch Lor- 
na up them, even if she were not half-starved, 
as well as partly frozen ; and as for Gwen- 
ny’s door, as we called it (that is to say, the 
little entrance from the wooded hollow), it 
was snowed up long ago to the level of the 
hills around. Therefore I was at my wit’s 
end how to get them out; the passage by 
the Doone-gate being long, and dark, and 
difficult, and leading to such a weary circuit 
among the snowy moors and hills. 

But now, being homeward bound by the 
shortest possible track, I slipped along be- 
tween the bonfire and the boundary cliffs, 
where I found a caved way of snow behind 
a jsort of avalanche : so that if the Doones 
had been keeping watch (which they were 
not doing, but reveling) they could scarcely 
have discovered me. And when I came to 
my old ascent, where I had often scaled the 
cliff and made across the mountains, it struck 
me that I would just have a look at my first 
and painful entrance, to wit, the water-slide. 
I never for a moment imagined that this 
could help me now ; for I never had dared 
to descend it, even in the finest weather; 
still, I had a curiosity to know what my old 
friend was like, with so much snow upon 
him. But, to my very great surprise, there 
was scarcely any snow there at all, though 
plenty curling high overhead from the cliff, 
like bolsters over it. Probably the sweep- 
ing of the north-east wind up the narrow 
chasm had kept the showers from blocking 
it, although the water had no power under 
the bitter grip of frost. All my water-slide 
was now less a slide than path of ice ; fur- 
rowed where the waters ran over fluted 
ridges ; seamed where wind had tossed and 
combed them, even while congealing; and 
crossed with little steps wherever the freez- 
ing torrent lingered. And here and there 
the ice was fibred with the trail of sludge- 
weed, slanting from the side, and matted, so 
as to make resting-place. 


154 


LORNA DOONE. 


Lo, it was easy track and channel, as if 
for the very purpose made, down which I 
could guide my sledge, with Lorna sitting 
in it. There were only two things to be 
feared; one lest the rolls of snow above 
should fall in and bury us; the other lest 
we should rush too fast, and so be carried 
headlong into the black whirlpool at the 
bottom, the middle of which was still un- 
frozen, and looking more horrible by the 
contrast. Against this danger I made pro- 
vision, by fixing a stout bar across ; but of 
the other we must take our chance, and trust 
ourselves to Providence. 

I hastened home at my utmost speed, and 
told my mother for God’s sake to keep the 
house up till my return, and to have plenty 
of fire blazing, and plenty of water boiling, 
and food enough hot for a dozen people, and 
the best bed aired with the warming-pan. 
Dear mother smiled softly at my excitement, 
though her own was not much less, I am 
sure, and enhanced by sore anxiety. Then 
I gave very strict directions to Annie, and 
praised her a little, and kissed her ; and I 
even endeavored to flatter Eliza, lest she 
should be disagreeable. 

After this I took some brandy, both with- 
in and about me ; the former, because I had 
sharp work to do ; and the latter in fear of 
whatever might happen, in such great cold, 
to my comrades. Also I carried some other 
provisions, grieving much at their coldness ; 
and then I went to the upper linhay, aud 
took our new light pony-sled, which had 
been made almost as much for pleasure as 
for business ; though God only knows how 
our girls could have found any pleasure in 
bumping along so. On the snow, however, 
it ran as sweetly as if it had been made for 
it ; yet I durst not take the pony with it ; 
in the first place, because his hoofs would 
break through the ever-shifting surface of 
the light and piling snow; and secondly, 
because those ponies, coming from the for- 
est, have a dreadful trick of neighing, and 
most of all in frosty weather. 

Therefore I girded my own body with a 
dozen turns of hay-rope, twisting both the 
ends in under at the bottom of my breast, 
and winding the hay on the skew a little, 
that the hempen thong might not slip be- 
tween, and so cut me in the drawing. I put 
a good piece of spare rope in the sled, and 
the cross-seat with the back to it, which 
was stuffed with our own wool, as well as 
two or three fur-coats : and then, just as I 
was starting, out came Annie, in spite of 
the cold, panting for fear of missing me, 
and with nothing on her head, but a lantern 
in one hand. 

“Oh, John, here is the most wonderful 
thing ! Mother has never shown it before ; 
and I can’t think how she could make up her 
mind. She had gotten it in a great well of 
.a cupboard, with camphor, and spirits, and 


lavender. Lizzie says it is a most magnifi- 
cent seal-skin cloak, worth fifty pounds, or 
a farthing.” 

“At any rate, it is soft and warm,” said I, 
very calmly flinging it into the bottom of 
the sled. “ Tell mother I will put it over 
Lorna’s feet.” 

“Lorna’s feet ! Oh you great fool !” cried 
Annie, for the first time reviling me : “ over 
her shoulders ; and be proud, you very stupid 
John.” 

“It is not good enough for her feet;” I 
answered, with strong emphasis ; “ but don’t 
tell mother I said so, Annie. Only thank 
her very kindly.” 

With that I drew my traces hard, and set 
my ashen staff into the snow, and struck 
out with my best foot foremost (the best 
one at snow-shoes, I mean), and the sled 
came after me as lightly as a dog might fol- 
low ; and Annie, with the lantern, seemed to 
be left behind and waiting, like a pretty 
lamp-post. 

The full moon rose as bright behind me 
as a paten of pure silver, casting on the 
snow long shadows of the few things left 
above, burdened rock, and shaggy foreland, 
and the laboring trees. In the great wide 
desolation, distance was a mocking vision : 
hills looked nigh, and valleys far; when 
hills were far and valleys nigh. And the 
misty breath of frost, piercing through the 
ribs of rock, striking to the pith of trees, 
creeping to the heart of man, lay along the 
hollow places, like a serpent sloughing. 
Even as my own gaunt shadow (travestied 
as if I were the moonlight’s daddy-longlegs) 
went before me down the slope ; even I, the 
shadow’s master, who had tried in vain to 
cough, when coughing brought good liquor- 
ice, felt a pressure on my bosom, and a husk- 
ing in my throat. 

However, I went on quietly, and at a very 
tidy speed ; being only too thankful that 
the snow had ceased, and no wind as yet 
arisen. And from the ring of low white va- 
por girding all the verge of sky, and from 
the rosy blue above, and the shafts of star- 
light set upon a quivering bow, as well as 
from the moon itself and the light behind 
it, having learned the signs of frost from its 
bitter twinges, I knew that we should have 
a night as keen as ever England felt. Nev- 
ertheless, I had work enough to keep me 
warm if I managed it. The question was, 
could I contrive to save my darling from it ? 

Daring not to risk my sled by any fall from 
the valley cliffs, I dragged it very carefully 
up the steep incline of ice, through the nar- 
row chasm, and so to the very brink and verge 
where first I had seen my Lorna, in the fish- 
ing-days of boyhood. As then I had a tri- 
dent fork, for sticking of the loaches, so now 
I had a strong ash stake to lay across from 
rock to rock, and break the speed of descend- 
ing. With this I moored the sled quite safe, 


LORNA DOONE. 


155 


at the very lip of the chasm, where all was 
now substantial ice, green and black in the 
moonlight ; and then I set off up the valley, 
skirting along one side of it. 

The stack-fire still was burning strongly, 
but with more of heat than blaze ; and many 
of the younger Doones were playing on the 
verge of it, the children making rings of fire, 
and their mothers watching them. All the 
grave and reverend warriors, having heard 
of rheumatism, were inside of log and stone, 
in the two lowest houses, with enough of 
candles burning to make our list of sheep 
come short. 

All these I passed without the smallest 
risk or difficulty, walking up the channel of 
drift which I spoke of once before. And 
then I crossed with more of care, and to the 
door of Lorna’s house, and made the sign, 
and listened, after taking my snow-shoes off. 

But no one came as I expected, neither 
could I espy a light. And I seemed to hear 
a faint low sound, like the moaning of the 
snow-wind. Then I knocked again more 
loudly, with a knockiug at my heart ; and 
receiving no answer, set all my power at 
once against the door. In a moment it flew 
inward, and I glided along the passage, with 
my feet still slippery. There in Lorna’s room 
I saw, by the moonlight flowing in, a sight 
which drove me beyond sense. 

Lorn a was behind a chair, crouching in 
the corner with her hands up, and a crucifix, 
or something that looked like it. In the 
middle of the room lay Gwenny Carfax, stu- 
pid, yet with one hand clutching the ankle 
of a struggling man. Another man stood 
above my Lorn a, trying to draw the chair 
away. In a moment I had him round the 
waist, and he went out of the window with 
a mighty crash of glass; luckily for him 
that window had no bars like some of them. 
Then I took the other man by the neck ; and 
he could not plead for mercy. I bore him 
out of the house as lightly as I would bear a 
baby, yet squeezing his throat a little more 
than I fain would do to an infant. By the 
bright moonlight, I saw that I carried Mar- 
wood de Whichehalse. For his father’s sake 
I spared him, and because he had been my 
school-fellow : but with every muscle of my 
body strung with indignation, I cast him, 
like a skittle, from me into a snow-drift, 
which closed over him. Then I looked for 
the other fellow, tossed through Lorna’s 
window ; and found him lying stunned and 
bleeding, neither able to groan yet. Charle- 
worth Doone, if his gushing blood did not 
much mislead me. 

It was no time to linger now : I fastened 
my shoes in a moment, and caught up my 
own darling, with her head upon my shoul- 
der, where she whispered faintly ; and tell- 
ing Gwenny to follow me, or else I would 
eome back for her if she could not walk the 
snow, I ran the whole distance to my sled, 


caring not who might follow me. Then by 
the time I had set up Lorn a, beautiful and 
smiliug, with the seal-skin cloak all over her, 
sturdy Gwenuy came along, having trudged 
in the track of my snow-shoes, although with 
two bags on her back. I set her in beside 
her mistress, to support her, and keep warm ; 
and then with one look back at the glen, 
which had been so long my home of heart, I 
hung behind the sled, and launched it down 
the steep and dangerous way. 

Though the cliffs were black above us, 
and the road unseen in front, and a great 
white grave of snow might at a single word 
come down, Lorna was as calm and happy 
as an infant in its bed. She knew that I 
was with her; and when I told her not to 
speak, she touched my hand in silence. 
Gwenny was in a much greater fright, hav- 
ing never seen such a thing before, neither 
knowing what it is to yield to pure love’s 
confidence. I could hardly keep her quiet, 
without making a noise myself. With my 
staff from rock to rock, and my weight 
thrown backward, I broke the sled’s too rap- 
id way, and brought my grown love safely 
out, by the self-same road which first had 
led me to her girlish fancy, and my boyish 
slavery. 

Unpursued, yet looking back as if some 
one must be after us, we skirted round the 
black whirling pool, and gained the mead- 
ows beyond it. Here there was hard collar- 
work, the track being all up-hill and rough; 
and Gwenny wanted to jump out, to lighten 
the sled and to push behind. But I would 
not hear of it ; because it was now so dead- 
ly cold, and I feared that Lorna might get 
frozen without having Gwenny to keep her 
warm. And after all, it was the sweetest 
labor I had ever known in all my life, to be 
sure that I was pulling Lorna, and pulling 
her to our own farm-house. 

Gwenny’s nose was touched with frost be- 
fore we had gone much farther, because she 
would not keep it quiet and snug beneath 
the seal-skin. And here I had to stop in the 
moonlight (which was very dangerous) and 
rub it with a clove of snow, as Eliza had 
taught me; and Gwenny scolding all the 
time as if myself had frozen it. Lorna was 
now so far oppressed with all the troubles 
of the evening, and the joy that followed 
them, as well as by the piercing cold and 
difficulty of breathing, that she lay quite 
motionless, like fairest wax in the moon- 
light — when we stole a glance at her, be- 
neath the dark folds of the cloak; and I 
thought that she was falling into the heavy 
snow-sleep, whence there is no awaking. 

Therefore I drew my traces tight, and set 
my whole strength to the business ; and we 
slipped along at a merry pace, although 
with many joltings, which must have sent 
my darling out into the cold snow-drifts but 
for the short strong arm of Gwenny. And 


156 


LORNA DOONE. 


so in about an hour’s time, in spite of many 
hinderances, we came home to the old court- 
yard, and all the dogs saluted us. My heart 
was quivering, and my cheeks as hot as the 
Doones’ bonfire, with wondering both what 
Lorn a would think of our farm-yard, and 
what my mother would think of her. Upon 
the former subject my anxiety was wasted ; 
for Lorna neither saw a thing, nor even 
opened her heavy eyes. And as to what 
mother would think of her, she was certain 
not to think at all until she had cried over 
her. 

And so, indeed, it came to pass. Even at 
this length of time I can hardly tell it, al- 
though so bright before my mind, because 
it moves my heart so. The sled was at the 
open door, with only Lorna in it : for Gwen- 
uy Carfax had jumped out, and hung back 
in the clearing, giving any reason rather 
than the only true one — that she would not 
be intruding. At the door were all our peo- 
ple ; first, of course, Betty Muxworthy, teach- 
ing me how to draw the sled, as if she had 
been born in it, and flourishing with a great 
broom wherever a speck of snow lay. Then 
dear Annie, and old Molly (who was very 
quiet, and counted almost for nobody), and 
behind them mother, looking as if she want- 
ed to come first, but doubted how the man- 
ners lay. In the distance Lizzie stood, fear- 
ful of encouraging, but unable to keep out 
of it. 

Betty was going to poke her broom right 
in under the seal-skin cloak, where Lorna 
lay unconscious, and where her precious 
breath hung frozen, like a silver cobweb ; 
but I caught up Betty’s broom, and flung it 
clean away over the corn-chamber ; and then 
I put the others by, and fetched my mother 
forward. 

“ You shall see her first,” I said ; “ is she 
not your daughter? Hold the light there, 
Annie.” 

Hear mother’s hands were quick and 
trembling, as she opened the shining folds ; 
and there she saw my Lorna sleeping, with 
her black hair all disheveled, and she bent 
and kissed her forehead, and only said, “ God 
bless her, John!” And then she was taken 
with violent weeping, and I was forced to 
hold her. 

“ Us may tich of her now, I rackon,” said 
Betty, in her most jealous way : “ Annie, tak 
her by the head, and I’ll tak her by the 
toesen. No taime to stand here like girt 
gawks. Don’ee tak on zo, missus. Ther 
be vainer vish in the zea — Lor, but her be 
a booty !” 

With this, they carried her into the house, 
Betty chattering all the while, and going on 
now about Lorna’s hands, and the others 
crowding round her, so that I thought I was 
not wanted among so many women, and 
should only get the worst of it, and perhaps 
do harm to my darling. Therefore I went 


[ and brought Gwenny in and gave her a pot- 
ful of bacon and peas, and an iron spoon to 
eat it with, which she did right heartily. 

Then I asked her how she could have been 
such a fool as to let those two vile fellows 
enter the house where Lorna was ; and she 
accounted for it so naturally that I could 
only blame myself. For my agreement had 
been to give one loud knock (if you hap- 
pen to remember), and after that two little 
knocks. Well, these two drunken rogues 
had come; and one, being very drunk in- 
deed, had given a great thump, and then 
nothing more to do with it ; and the other, 
being three-quarters drunk, had followed his 
leader (as one might say) but feebly, and 
making two of it. Whereupon up jumped 
Lorna, and declared that her John was 
there. 

All this Gwenny told me shortly, between 
the whiles of eating, and even while she 
licked the spoon ; and then there came a 
message for me that my love was sensible, 
and was seeking •all around for me. Then I 
told Gwenny to hold her tongue (whatever 
she did, among us), and not to trust to wom- 
en’s words ; and she told me they all were 
liars, as she had found out long ago ; and 
the only thing to believe in was an honest 
man when found. Thereupon I could have 
kissed her, as a sort of tribute, liking to be 
appreciated ; yet the peas upon her lips 
made me think about it ; and thought is 
fatal to action. So I went to see my dear. 

That sight I shall not forget, till my dy- 
ing head falls back, and my breast can lift 
no more. I know not whether I were then 
more blessed, or harrowed by it. For in the 
settle was my Lorna, propped with pillows 
round her, and her clear hands spread some- 
times to the blazing fire-place. In her eyes 
no knowledge was of any thing around her, 
neither in her neck the sense of leaning 
toward any thing. Only both her lovely 
hands were entreating something to spare 
her, or to love her; and the lines of suppli- 
cation quivered in her sad, white face. 

“All go away except my mother,” I said 
very quietly, but so that I would be obeyed ; 
and every body knew it. Then mother came 
to me alone ; and she said, “The frost is in 
her brain ; I have heard of this before, John.” 
“ Mother, I will have it out,” was all that I 
could answer her ; “ leave her to me alto- 
gether ; only you sit there and watch.” For 
I felt that Lorna knew me, and no other soul 
but me ; and that if not interfered with, she 
would soon come home to me. Therefore I 
sat gently by her, leaving Nature, as it were, 
to her own good' time and will. And pres- 
ently the glance that watched me, as at dis- 
tance and in doubt, began to flutter and to 
brighten, and to deepen into kindness, then 
to beam with trust and love, and then with 
gathering tears to falter, and in shame to 
turn away. But the small entreating hands 


LORNA DOONE. 


157 


found their way, as if by instinct, to my 
great protecting palms, and trembled there, 
and rested there. 

For a little while we lingered thus, nei- 
ther wishing to move away, neither caring to 
look beyond the presence of the other; both 
alike so full of hope, and comfort, and true 
happiness, if only the world would let us 
be. And then a little sob disturbed us, and 
mother tried to make believe that she was 
only coughing. But Lorna, guessing who 
she was, jumped up so very rashly that she 
almost set her frock on fire from the great 
ash-log; and away she ran to the old oak 
chair, where mother was by the clock-case 
pretending to be knitting, and she took the 
work from mother’s hands, and laid them 
both upon her head, kneeling humbly and 
looking up. 

“ God bless you, my fair mistress !” said 
mother, bending nearer ; and then, as Lorna’s 
gaze prevailed, “God bless you, my sweet 
child !” 

And so she went to mother’s heart by the 
very .nearest road, even as she had come to 
mine ; I mean the road of pity, smoothed by 
grace, and youth, and gentleness. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

A CHANGE LONG NEEDED. 

Jeremy Stickles was gone south, ere 
ever the frost set in, for the purpose of mus- 
tering forces to attack the Doone Glen. 
But of course this weather had put a stop 
to every kind of movement ; for even if men 
could have borne the cold, they could scarce- 
ly be brought to face the perils of the snow- 
drifts. And, to tell the truth, I cared not 
how long this weather lasted, so long as we 
had enough to eat, and could keep ourselves 
from freezing. Not only that I did not want 
Master Stickles back again, to make more 
disturbances, but also that the Doones could 
not come prowling after Lorna, while the 
snow lay piled between us, with the surface 
soft and dry. Of course they would very 
soon discover where their lawful queen was, 
although the track of sled and snow-shoes 
had been quite obliterated by another show- 
er before the revelers could have grown half 
as drunk as they intended. But Marwood 
de Whichehalse, who had been snowed up 
among them (as Gwenny said), after helping 
to strip the beacon, that young Squire was 
almost certain to have recognized me, and 
to have told vile Carver. And it gave me 
no little pleasure to think how mad that 
Carver must be with me for robbing him of 
the lovely bride whom he was starving into 
matrimony. However, I was not pleased at 
all with the prospect of the consequences, 
but set all hands on to thresh the corn ere 
the Doones could come and burn the ricks. 


For I knew that they could not come yet, 
inasmuch as even a forest pony could not 
traverse the country, much less the heavy 
horses needed to carry such men as they 
were. And hundreds of the forest ponies 
died in this hard weather, some being buried 
in the snow, and more of them starved for 
want of grass. 

Going through this state of things, and 
laying down the law about it (subject to 
correction), I very soon persuaded Lorna 
that for the present she was safe, and (which 
made her still more happy) that she was not 
only welcome, but as gladdening to our eyes 
as the flowers of May. Of course, so far as 
regarded myself, this was not a hundredth 
part of the real truth ; and even as regarded 
others, I might have said it ten times over. 
For Lorna had so won them all by her kind 
and gentle ways, and her mode of hearken- 
ing to every body’s trouble and replying 
without words, as well as by her beauty and 
simple grace of all things, that I could al- 
most wish sometimes the rest would leave 
her more to me. But mother could not do 
enough, and Annie almost worshiped her; 
and even Lizzie could not keep her bitter- 
ness toward her, especially when she found 
that Lorna knew as much of books as need 
be. 

As for John Fry, and Betty, and Molly, 
they were a perfect plague when Lorna 
came into the kitchen. For betwixt their 
curiosity to see a live Doone in the flesh 
(when certain not to eat them), and their 
high respect for birth (with or without hon- 
esty), and their intense desire to know all 
about Master John’s sweetheart (dropped, 
as they said, from the snow -clouds), and 
most of all their admiration of a beauty such 
as never even their angels could have seen — 
betwixt and between all this, I say, there 
was no getting the dinner cooked, with Lor- 
na in the kitchen. 

And the worst of it was that Lorna took 
the strangest of all strange fancies for this 
very kitchen, and it was hard to keep her 
out of it. Not that she had any special bent 
for cooking, as our Anuie had ; rather, in- 
deed, the contrary, for she liked to have her 
food ready cooked; but that she loved the 
look of the place, and the cheerful fire burn- 
ing, and the racks of bacon to be seen, and 
the richness and the homeliness, aud the 
pleasant smell of every thing. And who 
knows but what she may have liked (as the 
very best of maidens do) to be admired, now 
and then, between the times of business ? 

Therefore, if you wanted Lorna (as I was 
always sure to do, God knows how many 
times a day), the very surest place to find 
her was our own old kitchen. Not gossip- 
ing, I mean, nor loitering, neither seeking 
into things; but seeming to be quite at 
home, as if she had known it from a child, 
and seeming (to my eyes at least) to light it 


158 


LORNA DOONE. 


up, and make life and color out of all the 
dullness; as I have seen the breaking sun do 
among brown shocks of wheat. 

But any one who wished to learn whether 
girls can change or not, as the things around 
them change (while yet their hearts are 
steadfast, and forever anchored), he should 
just have seen my Lorna after a fortnight 
of our life, and freedom from anxiety. It is 
possible that my company — although I am 
accounted stupid by folk who do not know 
my way — may have had something to do 
with it ; but upon this I will not say much, 
lest I lose my character. And indeed as re- 
gards company, I had all the threshing to 
see to, and more than half to do myself 
(though any one would have thought that 
even John Fry must work hard this weather), 
else I could not hope at all to get our corn 
into such compass that a good gun might 
protect it. 

But to come back to Lorna again (which 
I always longed to do, and must long for- 
ever), all the change between night and day, 
all the shifts of cloud and sun, all the differ- 
ence between black death and brightsome 
liveliness, scarcely may suggest or equal 
Lorna’s transformation. Quick she had al- 
ways been, and “peart” (as we say on Ex- 
moor), and gifted with a leap of thought too 
swift for me to follow ; and hence you may 
find fault with much, when I report her say- 
ings. But through the whole had always 
run, as a black string goes through pearls, 
something dark and touched with shadow, 
colored as with an early end. 

But now, behold, there was none of this ! 
There was no getting her, for a moment 
even, to be serious. All her bright young 
wit was flashing, like a newly -awakened 
flame, aud all her high young spirits leaped, 
as if dancing to its fire. And yet she never 
spoke a word which gave more pain than 
pleasure. 

And even in her outward look there was 
much of difference. Whether it was our 
warmth, and freedom, and our harmless love 
of God, and trust in one another ; or wheth- 
er it were our air, and water, and the pea- 
fed bacon ; anyhow my Lorna grew richer 
and more lovely, more perfect and more firm 
of figure, and more light and buoyant, with 
every passing day that laid its tribute on 
her cheeks and lips. I was allowed one kiss 
a day ; only one for manners’ sake, because 
she was our visitor ; and I might have it be- 
fore breakfast, or else when I came to say 
“good-night!” according as I decided. And 
I decided every night not to take it in the 
morning, but put it off till the evening time, 
and have the pleasure to think about through 
all the day of working. But when my dar- 
ling came up to me in the early daylight, 
fresher than the day-star, and with no one 
looking ; only her bright eyes smiling, and 
sweet lips quite ready, was it likely I could 


wait, and think all day about it? For she 
wore a frock of Annie’s, nicely made to fit 
her, taken in at the waist and curved — I 
never could explain it, not being a mantua- 
maker; but I know how her figure looked 
in it, and how it came toward me. 

But this is neither here nor there, and I 
must on with my story. Those days are 
very sacred to me ; aud if I speak lightly 
of them, trust me, ’tis with '.ip alone ; while 
from heart reproach peeps sadly at the flip- 
pant tricks of mind. 

Although it was the longest winter ever 
known in our parts (never having ceased to 
freeze for a single night, and scarcely for a 
single day, from the middle of December till 
the second week in March), to me it was the 
very shortest and the most delicious ; aud 
verily I do believe it was the same to Lor- 
na. But when the Ides of March were come 
(of which I do remember something dim from 
school, and something clear from my favorite 
writer), lo, there were increasing signals of a 
change of weathe'r. 

One leading feature of that long cold, and 
a thing remarked by every one (however 
unobservant), had been the hollow moaning 
sound ever present in the air, morning, noon, 
and night-time, and especially at night, 
whether any wind were stirring, or whether 
it were a perfect calm. Our people said 
that it was a witch cursing all the country 
from the caverns by the sea, and that frost 
and snow would last until we could catch and 
drown her. But the land being thorough- 
ly blocked with snow, and the inshore parts 
of the sea with ice (floating in great fields 
along), Mother Melldrum (if she it were) 
had the caverns all to herself, for there was 
no getting at her. Aud speaking of the sea 
reminds me of a thing reported to us, and 
on good authority ; though people might be 
found hereafter who would not believe it, 
unless I told them that from what I myself 
beheld of the channel I place perfect faith 
in it : and this is, that a dozen sailors at the 
beginning of March crossed the ice, with the 
aid of poles, from Clevedon to Penarth, or 
where the Holm rocks barred the floatage. 

But now, about the tenth of March, that 
miserable moaning noise, which had both 
foregone and accompanied the rigor, died 
away from out the air ; and we, being now 
so used to it, thought at first that we must 
be deaf. And then the fog, which had hung 
about (even in full sunshine), vanished, and 
the shrouded hills shone forth with bright- 
ness manifold. And now the sky at length 
began to come to its true manner, which we 
had not seen for months — a mixture (if I so 
may speak) of various expressions. Where- 
as till now from Allhallows-tide, six weeks 
ere the great frost set in, the heavens had 
worn one heavy mask of ashen gray when 
clouded, or else one amethystine tinge with 
a hazy rim when cloudless. So it was pleas- 


LORNA DOONE. 


159 


ant to behold, after that monotony, the fickle 
sky which suits our England, though abused 
by foreign folk. 

And soon the dappled softening sky gave 
some earnest of its mood ; for a brisk south 
wind arose, and the blessed rain came driv- 
ing ; cold, indeed, yet most refreshing to the 
skin, all parched with snow, and the eye- 
balls so long dazzled. Neither was the heart 
more sluggish in its thankfulness to God. 
People had begun to think, and somebody 
had prophesied, that we should have no 
spring this year, no seed-time, and no har- 
vest ; for that the Lord had sent a judg- 
ment on this country of England, and the 
nation dwelling in it, because of the wicked- 
ness of the Court, and the encouragement 
shown to Papists. And this was proved, 
they said, by what had happened in the 
town of London, where, for more than a 
fortnight, such a chill of darkness lay that 
no man might behold his neighbor, even 
across the narrowest street ; and where the 
ice upon the Thames was more than four 
feet thick, and crushing London Bridge in 
twain. Now to these prophets I paid no 
heed, believing not that Providence would 
freeze us for other people’s sins ; neither see- 
ing how England could for many genera- 
tions have enjoyed good sunshine, if Popery 
meant frost and fogs. Besides, why could 
not Providence settle the business once for 
all by freezing the Pope himself, even though 
(according to our view) he were destined to 
extremes of heat, together with all who fol- 
lowed him ? 

Not to meddle with that subject, being 
beyond my judgment, let me tell the things 
I saw, and then you must believe me. The 
wind, of course, I could not see, not having 
the powers of a pig; but I could see the 
laden branches of the great oaks moving, 
hoping to shake off the load packed and 
saddled on them. And hereby I may note a 
thing which some one may explain perhaps 
in the after-ages, when people come to look 
at things. This is, that in desperate cold 
all the trees were pulled awry, even though 
the wind had scattered the snow -burden 
from them. Of some sorts the branches 
bended downward, like an archway; of oth- 
er sorts the boughs curved upward, like a 
red deer’s frontlet. This I know no reason* 
for ; but am ready to swear that I saw it. 

Now when the first of the rain began, and 
the old familiar softness spread upon the 
window-glass, and ran a little way in chan- 


* The reason is very simple, as all nature’s reasons 
are, though the subject has not yet been investigated 
thoroughly. In some trees the vascular tissue is more 
open on the upper side, in others on the under side, 
of the spreading branches; according to the form of 
growth and habit of the sap. Hence in very severe 
cold, when the vessels (comparatively empty) are con- 
stricted, some have more power of contraction on the 
upper side, and some upon the under. — E d. L. D. 


nels (though from the coldness of the glass 
it froze before reaching the bottom), know- 
ing at once the difference from the short 
sharp thud of snow, we all ran out, and fill- 
ed our eyes and filled our hearts with gaz- 
ing. True, the snow was piled up now all 
in mountains round us ; true, the air was 
still so cold that our breath froze on the 
door- way, and the rain was turned to ice 
wherever it struck anything: nevertheless, 
that it was rain there was no denying, as 
we watched it across black door-ways, and 
could see no sign of white. Mother, who 
had made up her mind that the farm was 
not worth having, after all those prophecies, 
and that all of us must starve, and holes 
be scratched in the snow for us, and no use 
to put up a tombstone (for our church had 
been shut up long ago), mother fell upon 
my breast, and sobbed that I was the clev- 
erest fellow ever born of woman. And this 
because I had condemned the prophets for 
a pack of fools ; not seeing how business 
could go on, if people stopped to hearken to 
them. 

Then Lorna came and glorified me, for 1 
had predicted a change of weather, more to 
keep their spirits up than with real hope of 
it ; and #ien came Annie blushing shyly, as 
I looked at her and said that Winnie would 
soon have four legs now. This referred to 
some stupid joke made by John Fry or some- 
body, that in this weather a man had no 
legs, and a horse had only two. 

But as the rain came down upon us from 
the south-west wind, and we could not have 
enough of it, even putting our tongues to 
catch it, as little children might do, and be- 
ginning to talk of primroses, the very no- 
blest thing of all was to hear and see the 
gratitude of the poor beasts yet remaining 
and the few surviving birds. From the cow- 
house lowing came, more than of fifty milk- 
ing times; moo and moo, and a turn-up 
noise at the end of every bellow, as if from 
the very heart of kine. Then the horses in 
the stables, packed as closely as they could 
stick, at the risk of kicking, to keep the 
warmth in one another, and their spirits up 
by discoursing ; these began -\yith one ac- 
cord to lift up their voices, snorting, snaf- 
fling, whinnying, and neighing, and trotting 
to the door to know when they should have 
work again. To whom, as if in answer, 
came the feeble bleating of the sheep, what 
few, by dint of greatest care, had kept their 
fleeces on their backs, and their four legs 
under them. 

Neither was it a trifling thing, let whoso 
will say the contrary, to behold the ducks 
and geese marching forth in handsome 
order from their beds of fern and straw. 
What a goodly noise they kept — what a 
flapping of their wings, and a jerking of 
their tails, as they stood right up and tried, 
with a whistling in their throats, to imitate 


160 


LORNA DOONE. 


a cock’s crow ! Aucl then liow daintily they 
took the wet upon their dusty plumes, and 
ducked their shoulders to it, and began to 
dress themselves, and laid their grooved bills 
on the snow, and dabbled for more ooziness ! 

Lorn a had never seen, I dare say, any thing 
like this before, and it was all that we could 
do to keep her from rushing forth with only 
little lamb’s-wool shoes on, and kissing every 
one of them. “ Oh the dear things ! oh the 
dear things !” she kept saying continually, 
“ how wonderful clever they are ! Only 
look at that one with his foot up giving or- 
ders to the others, John !” 

“And I must give orders to you, my dar- 
ling,” I answered, gazing on her face, so brill- 
iant with excitement ; “ and that is, that you 
come in at once, with that worrisome cough 
of yours, and sit by the fire and warm your- 
self.” 

“Oh no, John. Not for a minute, if you 
please, good John. I want to see the snow 
go away, and the green meadows coming 
forth. And here comes our favorite robin, 
who has lived in the oven so long, and sung 
us a song every morning. I must see what 
he thinks of it.” 

“ You will do nothing of the sort,” I an- 
swered very shortly, being only toll glad of 
a cause for having her in my arms again. 
So I caught her up, and carried her in ; and 
she looked and smiled so sweetly at me in- 
stead of pouting (as I had feared), that I 
found myself unable to go very fast along 
the passage. And I set her there in her fa- 
vorite place by the sweet-scented wood- fire ; 
and she paid me porterage, without my even 
asking her; and for all the beauty of the 
rain, I was fain to stay with her, until our 
Annie came to say that my advice was 
wanted. 

Now my advice was never much, as every 
body knew quite well; but that was the 
way they always put it when they wanted 
me to work for them. And in truth it was 
time for me to work ; not for others, but 
myself and (as I always thought) for Lorna. 
For the rain was now coming down in ear- 
nest ; and the top of the snow being frozen 
at last, and. glazed as hard as a china cup, 
by means of the sun and frost afterward, all 
the rain ran right away from the steep in- 
clines, and all the outlets being blocked 
with ice set up like tables, it threatened to 
flood every thing. Already it was ponding 
up, like a tide advancing, at the threshold 
of the door from which we had watched 
the duck-birds ; both because great piles of 
snow trended in that direction, in spite of 
all our scraping, and also that the gulley 
hole, where the water of the shoot went out 
(I mean when it was water) now was choked 
with lumps of ice as big as a man’s body. 
For the “ shoot,” as we called our little 
runnel of everlasting water, never known to 
freeze before, and always ready for any man 


either to wash his hands, or drink, where it 
spouted from a trough of bark, set among 
white flint-stones ; this at last had given in, 
and its music ceased to lull us as we lay in 
bed. 

It was not long before I managed to drain 
off this threatening flood by opening the old 
sluice-hole: but I had much harder work 
to keep the stables, and the cow-house, and 
the other sheds, from flooding. For we have 
a sapient practice (and I never saw the con- 
trary, round about our parts, I mean) of 
keeping all rooms under - ground, so that 
you step down to them. We say that thus 
we keep them warmer, both for cattle and 
for men, in the time of winter, and cooler in 
the summer-time. This I will not contra- 
dict, though having my own opinion ; but it 
seems to me to be a relic of the time when 
people in the Western countries lived in caves 
beneath the ground, and blocked the mouths 
with neat- skins. 

Let that question still abide for men who 
study ancient times to inform me, if they 
will : all I know is, that now we had no 
blessings for the system. If, after all their 
cold and starving, our weak cattle now 
should have to stand up to their knees in 
water, it would be certain death to them ; 
and we had lost enough already to make us 
poor for a long time, not to speak of our 
kind love for them. And I do assure you I 
loved some horses, and even some cows, for 
that matter, as if they had been my blood- 
relations, knowing as I did their virtues. 
And some of these were lost to us, and I 
could not bear to think of them. Therefore 
I worked hard all night to try and save the 
rest of them. 


CHAPTER XLYI. 

SQUIRE FAGGUS MAKES SOME LUCKY HITS. 

Through that season of bitter frost, the 
red deer of the forest, having nothing to 
feed upon, and no shelter to rest in, had 
grown accustomed to our ricks of corn, and 
hay, and clover. There we might see a hun- 
dred of them, almost any morning, come for 
warmth, and food, and comfort, and scarce 
willing to move away. And many of them 
were so tame that they quietly presented 
themselves at our backdoor, and stood there 
with their coats quite stiff, and their flanks 
drawn in and panting, and icicles sometimes 
on their chins, and their great eyes fastened 
wistfully upon any merciful person, crav- 
ing for a bit of food and a drink of water. 
I suppose that they had not sense enough to 
chew the snow and melt it ; at any rate, all 
the springs being frozen, and rivers hidden 
out of sight, these poor things suffered even 
more from thirst than they did from hunger. 

But now there was no fear of thirst, and 
more chance indeed of drowning; for a 


LORNA DOONE. 


161 


heavy gale of wind arose, with violent rain 
from the south-west, which lasted almost 
without a pause for three nights and two 
days. At first the rain made no impression 
on the hulk of snow, but ran from every 
sloping surface, and froze on every flat one, 
through the coldness of the earth ; and so it 
became impossible for any man to keep his 
legs without the help of a shodden staff. 
After a good while, however, the air grow- 
ing very much warmer, this state of things 
began to change, and a worse one to suc- 
ceed it ; for now the snow came thunder- 
ing down from roof and rock, and ivied tree, 
and floods began to roar and foam in every 
trough and gulley. The drifts, that had 
been so white and fair, looked yellow, and 
smirched, and muddy, and lost their grace- 
ful curves, and moulded lines and airiness. 
But the strangest sight of all to me was in 
the bed of streams, and brooks, and especial- 
ly of the Lynn River. It was worth going 
miles to behold such a thing, for a man might 
never have the chance again. 

Vast drifts of snow had filled the valley, 
and piled above the river-course, fifty feet 
high in many places, and in some as much 
as a hundred. These had frozen over the 
top, and glanced the rain away from them ; 
and being sustained by rock and tree, span- 
ned the water mightily. But meanwhile 
the waxing flood, swollen from every moor- 
land hollow and from every spouting crag, 
had dashed away all icy fetters, and was 
rolling gloriously. Under white fantastic 
arches, and long tunnels freaked and fret- 
ted, and between pellucid pillars jagged 
with nodding architraves, the red impetu- 
ous torrent rushed, and the brown foam 
whirled and flashed. I was half inclined to 
jump in and swim through such glorious 
scenery ; for nothing used to please me more 
than swimming in a flooded river. But I 
thought of the rocks, and thought of the 
cramp, and more than all, of Lorn a ; and so, 
between one thing and another, I let it roll 
on without me. 

It was now high time to work very hard ; 
both to make up for the farm-work lost dur- 
ing the months of frost and snow, and also 
to be ready for a great and vicious attack 
from the Doones, who would burn us in our 
beds at the earliest opportunity. Of farm- 
work there was little yet for even the most 
zealous man to begin to lay his hand to : be- 
cause when the ground appeared through 
the crust of bubbled snow (as at last it did, 
though not as my Lorna had expected, at 
the first few drops of rain) it was all so soak- 
ed and sodden, and, as we call it, “ rnucksy,” 
that to meddle with it in any way was to 
do more harm than good. Nevertheless 
there was yard-work and house-work, and 
tendence of stock, enough to save any man 
from idleness. 

As for Lorna, she would come out. There 
11 


was no keeping her in the house. She had 
taken up some peculiar notion that we were 
doing more for her than she had any right 
to, and that she must earn her living by the 
hard work of her hands. It was quite in 
vain to tell her that she was expected to 
do nothing, and far worse than vain (for it 
made her cry sadly) if any one assured her 
that she could do no good at all. She even 
began upon mother’s garden before the snow 
was clean gone from it, and sowed a beauti- 
ful row of pease, every one of which the mice 
ate. 

But though it was very pretty to watch 
her working for her very life, as if the main- 
tenance of the household hung upon her la- 
bors, yet I was grieved for many reasons, 
and so was mother also. In the first place, 
she was too fair and dainty for this rough, 
rude work ; and though it made her cheeks 
so bright, it surely must be bad for her to 
get her little feet so wet. Moreover, we 
could not bear the idea that she should la- 
bor for her keep ; and again (which was the 
worst of all things), mother’s garden lay ex- 
posed to a dark, deceitful coppice, where a 
man might lurk, and watch all the fair gar- 
dener’s doings. It was true that none could 
get at her thence while the brook, which 
ran between, poured so great a torrent. Still, 
the distance was but little for a gun to car- 
ry, if any one could be brutal enough to 
point a gun at Lorna. I thought that none 
could be found to do it ; but mother, having 
more experience, was not so certain of man- 
kind. 

Now in spite of the floods, and the sloughs 
being out, and the state of the roads most 
perilous, Squire Faggus came at last, riding 
his famous strawberry mare. There was a 
great ado between him and Annie, as you 
may well suppose, after some four months 
of parting. And so we left them alone a 
while, to coddle over their raptures. But 
when they were tired of that, or at least had 
time enough to be so, mother aud I went in 
to know what news Tom had brought with 
him. Though he did not seem to want us 
yet, he made himself agreeable ; and so we 
sent Annie to cook the dinner, while her 
sweetheart should tell us every thing. 

Tom Faggus had very good news to tell, 
and he told it with such force of expression 
as made us laugh very heartily. He had 
taken up his purchase from old Sir Roger 
Bassett of a nice bit of land to the south of 
the moors, and in the parish of Holland. 
When the lawyers knew thoroughly who he 
was, and how he had made his money, they 
behaved uncommonly well to him, and show- 
ed great sympathy with his pursuits. He put 
them up to a thing or two ; and they poked 
him in the ribs, and said that he was quite 
a boy ; but of the right sort, none the less. 
And so they made old Squire Bassett pay 
the bill for both sides; and all he got for 


162 


LORNA DOONE. 


tliree hundred acres was a hundred and 
twenty pounds ; though Tom had paid five 
hundred. But lawyers know that this must 
be so, in spite of all their endeavors ; and 
the old gentleman, who now expected to find 
a bill for him to pay, almost thought him- 
self a rogue for getting any thing out of 
them. 

It is true that the land was poor and 
wild, and the soil exceeding shallow; lying 
on the slope of rock, and burned up in hot 
summers. But with us hot summers are 
things known by tradition only (as this 
great winter may be); we generally have 
more moisture, especially in July, than we 
well know what to do with. I have known 
a fog for a fortnight at the summer solstice, 
and farmers talking in church about it when 
they ought to be praying. But it always 
contrives to come right in the end, as other 
visitations do, if we take them as true visits, 
and receive them kindly. 

Now this farm of Squire Faggus (as he 
truly now had a right to be called) was of 
the very finest pasture when it got good 
store of rain. And Tom, who had ridden 
the Devonshire roads with many a reeking 
jacket, knew right well that he might trust 
the climate for that matter. The herbage 
was of the very sweetest, and the shortest, 
and the closest, having perhaps from ten to 
eighteen inches of wholesome soil between 
it and the solid rock. Tom saw at once 
what it was fit for — the breeding of fine 
cattle. 

Being such a hand as he was at making 
the most of every thing, both his own and 
other people’s (although so free in scatter- 
ing when the humor lay upon him), he had 
actually turned to his own advantage that 
extraordinary weather which had so impov- 
erished every one around him. For he taught 
his Winnie (who knew his meaning as well 
as any child could, and obeyed not only his 
word of mouth, but every glance he gave 
her), to go forth in the snowy evenings when 
horses are seeking everywhere (be they wild 
or tame) for fodder and for shelter, and to 
whinny to the forest ponies, miles away 
from home, perhaps, and lead them all, with 
rare appetite, and promise of abundance, 
to her master’s homestead. He shod good 
Winnie in such a manner that she could not 
sink in the snow ; and he clad her over the 
loins with a sheep-skin, dyed to her own 
color, which the wild horses were never tired 
of coming up and sniffing at ; taking it for 
an especial gift, and proof of inspiration. 
And Winnie never came home at night with- 
out at least a score of ponies trotting shyly 
after her, tossing their heads and their tails 
in turn, and making believe to be very wild, 
although hard pinched by famine. Of course 
Tom would get them all into his pound in 
about five minutes; for he himself could 
neigh in a manner which went to the heart 


of the wildest horse. And then he fed them 
well, and turned them into his great cattle- 
pen, to abide their time for breaking when 
the snow and frost should be over. 

He had gotten more than three hundred 
now in this sagacious manner ; and he said 
it was the finest sight to see their mode of 
carrying on. How they would snort, and 
stamp, and fume, and prick their ears, and 
rush backward, and lash themselves with 
their long rough tails, and shake their jag- 
ged manes, and scream, and fall upon one 
another, if a strange man came anigh them. 
But as for feeding-time, Tom said it was bet- 
ter than fifty plays to watch them, and the 
tricks they were up to, to cheat their feed- 
ers, and one another. I asked him how on 
earth he had managed to get fodder, in such 
impassable weather, for such a herd of horses ; 
but he said that they lived upon straw and 
sawdust ; and he knew that I did not be- 
lieve him, any more than about his star- 
shavings. And this was just the thing he 
loved — to mystify honest people, and be a 
great deal too knowing. However, I may 
judge him harshly, because I myself tell ev- 
ery thing. 

I asked him what he meant to do with all 
that enormous lot of horses, and why he had 
not exerted his wits to catch the red deer as 
well. He said that the latter would have 
been against the laws of venery, and might 
have brought him into trouble ; but as for 
disposing of his stud, it would give him lit- 
tle difficulty. He would break them when 
the spring weather came on, and deal with 
them as they required, and keep the hand- 
somest for breeding. The rest he would dis- 
patch to London, where he knew plenty of 
horse-dealers ; and he doubted not that they 
would fetch him as much as ten pounds 
apiece all round, being now in great de- 
mand. I told him I wished that he might 
get it : but, as it proved afterward, he did. 

Then he pressed us both on another point 
— the time for his marriage to Annie : and 
mother looked at me to say when, and I 
looked back at mother. However, knowing 
something of the world, and unable to make 
any further objection by reason of his pros- 
perity, I said that we must even do as the 
fashionable people did, and allow the maid 
herself to settle when she would leave home 
and all. And this I spoke with a very bad 
grace, being perhaps of an ancient cast, and 
overfond of honesty — I mean, of course, 
among lower people. 

But Tom paid little heed to this, knowing 
the world a great deal better than ever I 
could pretend to do ; and being ready to 
take a thing upon which he had set his 
mind, whether it came with a good grace, or 
whether it came with a bad one. And see- 
ing that it would be awkward to provoke 
my anger, he left the room, before more 
words, to submit himself to Annie. 


LORNA DOONE. 


163 


Upon this I went in search of Lorna, to 
tell her of our cousin’s arrival, and to ask 
whether she would think fit to see him, or 
to dine by herself that day ; for she should 
do exactly as it pleased her in every thing, 
while remaining still our guest. But I rath- 
er wished that she might choose not to sit in 
Tom’s company, though she might be intro- 
duced to him. Not but what he could be- 
have quite as well as I could, and much bet- 
ter as regarded elegance and assurance, only 
that his honesty had not been as one might 
desire. But Lorna had some curiosity to 
know what this famous man was like, and 
declared that she would by all means have 
the pleasure of dining with him, if he did 
not object to her company on the ground of 
the Doones’s dishonesty : moreover, she said 
that it would seem a most foolish air on her 
part, aud one which would cause the great- 
est pain to Annie, who had been so good to 
her, if she should refuse to sit at table with 
a man who held the King’s pardon, and was 
now a pattern of honesty. 

Against this I had not a word to say ; and 
could not help acknowledging in my heart 
that she was right, as well as wise, in her 
decision. And afterward I discovered that 
mother would have been much displeased if 
she had decided otherwise. 

Accordingly she turned away, with one of 
her very sweetest smiles (whose beauty none 
can describe), saying that she must not meet 
a mau of such fashion and renown in her 
common gardening frock, but must try to 
look as nice as she could, if only in honor 
of dear Annie. And truth to tell, when she 
came to dinner, every thing about her was 
the neatest and the prettiest that can pos- 
sibly be imagined. She contrived to match 
the colors so, to suit one another and her 
own, and yet with a certain delicate har- 
mony of contrast, and the shape of every 
thing was so nice, that when she came into 
the room, with a crown of winning modesty 
upon the consciousness of beauty, I was quite 
as proud as if the Queen of England entered. 

My mother could not help remarking, 
though she knew that it was not mannerly, 
how like a princess Lorna looked, now she 
had her best things on,* but two things 
caught Squire Faggus’s eyes, after he had 
made a most gallant bow, and received a 
most graceful courtesy; and he kept his 
bright bold gaze upon them, first on one and 
then on the other, until my darling was hot 
with blushes, and I was ready to knock him 
down, if he had not been our visitor. But 
here, again, I should have been wrong, as I 
was apt to be in those days; for Tom in- 
tended no harm whatever, and his gaze was 
of pure curiosity, though Annie herself was 
vexed with it. The two objects of his close 
regard were first, and most worthily, Lorna’s 
face ; and secondly, the ancient necklace re- 
stored to her by Sir Ensor Doone. 


Now wishing to save my darling’s com- 
fort, and to keep things quiet, I shouted out 
that dinner was ready, so that half the par- 
ish could hear me ; upon which my mother 
laughed, and chid me, and dispatched her 
guests before her. And a very good dinner 
we made, I remember, and a very happy one; 
attending to the women first, as now is the 
manner of eating, except among the work- 
men. With them, of course, it is needful 
that the man (who has his hours fixed) 
should be served first, and make the utmost 
of his time for feeding; while the women 
may go on, as much as ever they please, af- 
terward. But with us, who are not bound 
to time, there is no such reason to be quoted ; 
and the women being the weaker vessels, 
should be the first to begin to fill. And so 
we always arranged it. 

Now though our Annie was a graceful 
maid, and Lizzie a very learned one, you 
should have seen how differently Lorna man- 
aged her dining : she never took more than 
about a quarter of a mouthful at a time, and 
she never appeared to be chewing that, al- 
though she must have done so. Indeed she 
appeared to dine as if it were a matter of no 
consequence, and as if she could thipk of 
other things more than of her business. All 
this, and her own manner of eating, I de- 
scribed to Eliza once, when I wanted to vex 
her for something very spiteful that she had 
said ; and I never succeeded so well before, 
for the girl was quite outrageous, having her 
own perception of it, which made my obser- 
vation ten times as bitter to her. And I am 
not sure but what she ceased to like poor 
Lorna from that day : and if so, I was quite 
paid out, as I well deserved, for my bit of 
satire. 

For it strikes me that, of all human deal- 
ings, satire is the very lowest, and most 
mean and common. It is the equivalent in 
words for what bullying is in deeds ; and no 
more bespeaks a clever man than the other 
does a brave one. These two wretched 
tricks exalt a fool in his own low esteem, 
but never in his neighbor’s; for the deep 
common sense of our nature tells that no 
man of a genial heart, or of any spread of 
mind, can take pride in either. And though 
a good man may commit the one fault or the 
other, now and then by way of outlet, he is 
sure to have compunctions soon, and to scorn 
himself more than the sufferer. 

Now when the young maidens were gone 
— for we had quite a high dinner of fashion 
that day, with Betty Muxworthy waiting, 
and Gwenny Carfax at the gravy — and only 
mother, and Tom, and I remained at the 
white deal table, with brandy, and schnapps, 
and hot-water jugs, Squire Faggus said quite 
suddenly, and perhaps on purpose to take us 
aback in case of our hiding any thing, 

“ What do you know of the history of that 
beautiful maiden, good mother ?” 


164 


LORNA DOONE. 


“Not half so much as my son does/’ 
mother answered, with a soft smile at me : 
“and when John does not choose to tell a 
thing, wild horses will not pull it out of 
him.” 

“ That is not at all like me, mother,” I re- 
plied, rather sadly: “ you know almost every 
word about Lorna quite as well as I do.” 

“Almost every word, I believe, John; for 
you never tell a falsehood. But the few un- 
known may be of all the most important to 
me.” 

To this I made no answer, for fear of go- 
ing beyond the truth, or else of making mis- 
chief. Not that I had, or wished to have, 
any mystery with mother ; neither was there, 
in purest truth, any mystery iu the matter, 
to the utmost of my knowledge. And the 
only things that I had -kept back, solely for 
mother’s comfort, were the death of poor 
Lord Alan Brand ir (if indeed he were dead), 
and the connection of Marwood de Whiche- 
halse with the dealings of the Doones, and 
the threats of Carver Doone against my own 
prosperity; and maybe one or two little 
things, harrowing more than edifying. 

“ Come, come,” said Master Faggus, smil- 
ing very pleasantly, “you two understand 
each other, if any two on earth do. Ah, if I 
had only had a mother, how different I might 
have been !” And with that he sighed, in 
the tone which always overcame mother 
upon that subject, and had something to do 
with his getting Annie; and then he pro- 
duced his pretty box, full of rolled tobacco, 
and offered me one, as I now had joined the 
goodly company of smokers. So I took it, 
and watched what he did with his own, lest 
I might go wrong about mine. 

But when our cylinders were both light- 
ed, and I enjoying mine wonderfully, and as- 
tonishing mother by my skill, Tom Faggus 
told us that he was sure he had seen my 
Lorna’s face before, many and many years 
ago, when she was quite a little child, but 
he could not remember where it was, or any 
thing more about it at present ; though he 
would try to do so afterward. He could not 
be mistaken, he said, for he had noticed her 
eyes especially, and had never seen such 
eyes before, neither again, until this day. I 
asked him if he had ever ventured into the 
Doone-valley ; but he shook his head, and 
replied that he valued his life a deal too 
much for that. Then we put it to him, 
whether any thing might assist his memory ; 
but he said that he knew not of aught to do 
bo, unless it were another glass of schnapps. 

This being provided, he grew very wise, 
and told us clearly aud candidly that we 
were both very foolish. For he said that 
we were keeping Lorna at the risk not only 
of our stock, and the house above our heads, 
but also of our precious lives ; and after all, 
was she worth it, although so very beauti- 
ful ? Upon which I told him, with indigna- 


tion, that her beauty was the least part of 
her goodness, and that I would thank him 
for his opinion when I had requested it. 

“Bravo, our John Ridd!” he answered: 
“fools will be fools till the end of the chap- 
ter : and I might be as big a one if I were 
in thy shoes, John. Nevertheless, in the 
name of God, don’t let that helpless child 
go about with a thing worth half the coun- 
ty on her.” 

“ She is worth all the county herself,” 
said I, “ and all England put together : but 
she has nothing worth half a rick of hay 
upon her ; for the ring I gave her cost only ” 
— and here I stopped, for mother was look- 
ing, and I never would tell her how much it 
had cost me ; though sheihad tried fifty times 
to find out. 

“ Tush, the ring !” Tom Faggus cried, 
with a contempt that moved me : “I w r ould 
never have stopped a man for that. But 
the necklace, you great oaf, the necklace is 
worth all your 'farm put together, and your 
Uncle Ben’s fortune to the back of it ; ay, 
and all the town of Dulverton.” 

“ What !” said I ; “ that common glass 
thing, which she has had from her child- 
hood !” 

“ Glass, indeed ! They are the finest brill- 
iants ever I set eyes on : and I have handled 
a good many.” 

“ Surely,” cried mother, now flushing as 
red as Tom’s own cheeks, with excitement, 
“you must be wrong, or the young mistress 
would herself have known it.” 

I was greatly pleased with my mother for 
calling Lorna “ the young mistress :” it was 
not done for the sake of her diamonds, wheth- 
er they were glass or not ; but because she 
felt, as I had done, that Tom Faggus, a man 
of no birth whatever, was speaking beyond 
his mark in calling a lady like Lorna a “ help- 
less child,” as well as in his general tone, 
which displayed no deference. He might 
have been used to the quality, in the way 
of stopping their coaches, or roystering at 
hotels with them ; but he never had met a 
high lady before, in equality, and upon vir- 
tue ; and we both felt that he ought to have 
known it, and to have thanked us for the 
opportunity ; in a word, to have behaved a 
great deal more humbly thau he had even 
tried to do. 

“ Trust me,” answered Tom, in his loftiest 
manner, which Annie said was “ so noble,” 
but which seemed to me rather flashy, “ trust 
me, good mother, and simple J ohn, for know- 
ing brilliants when I see them. I would 
have stopped an eight -horse coach, with 
four carbiued outriders, for such a booty as 
that. But alas, those days are over: those 
were days worth living in. Ah, I never 
shall know the like again. How fine it was 
by moonlight !” 

“ Master Faggus,” began my mother, with 
a manner of some dignity, such as she could 


LORNA DOONE. 


165 


sometimes use by right of her integrity and 
thorough kindness to every one, u this is not 
the tone in which you have hitherto spoken 
to me about your former pursuits and life. I 
fear that the spirits ” — but here she stopped, 
because the spirits were her own, and Tom 
was our visitor — “ what I mean, Master Fag- 
gus, is this: you have won my daughter’s 
heart somehow ; and you won my consent 
to the matter through your honest sorrow, 
and manly undertaking to lead a different 
life, and touch no property but your own. 
Annie is my eldest daughter, and the child 
of a most upright man. I love her best of 
all on earth, next to my boy John here” — 
here mother gave me a mighty squeeze, to 
be sure that she would have me at least — 
“ and I will not risk my Annie’s life with a 
man who yearns for the highway.” 

Having made this very long speech (for 
her), mother came home upon my shoulder, 
and wept so that (but for heeding her) I 
would have taken Tom by the nose, and 
thrown him, and Winnie after him, over our 
farm -yard gate. For I am violent when 
roused, and freely hereby acknowledge it ; 
though even my enemies will own that it 
takes a great deal to rouse me. But I do 
consider the grief and tears (when justly 
caused) of my dearest friends to be a great 
deal to rouse me. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

JEREMY IN DANGER. 

Nothing very long abides, as the greatest 
of all writers (in whose extent I am forev- 
er lost in raptured wonder, and yet forever 
quite at home, as if his heart were mine, 
although his brains so different), in a word, 
as Mr. William Shakspeare, in every one of 
his works, insists, with a humored melan- 
choly. And if my journey to London led 
to nothing else of advancement, it took me 
a hundred years in front of what I might 
else have been, by the most simple accident. 

Two women were scolding one another 
across the road, very violently, both from 
up-stair windows; and I, in my hurry for 
quiet life, and not knowing what might 
come down upon me, quickened my step for 
the nearest corner. But suddenly something 
fell on my head ; and at first I was afraid to 
look, especially as it weighed heavily. But 
hearing no breakage of ware, and only the 
other scold laughing heartily, I turned me 
about and espied a book, which one had cast 
at the other, hoping to break her window. 
So I took the book, and tendered it at the 
door of the house from which it had fallen ; 
but the watchman came along just then, and 
the man at the door declared that it never 
came from their house, and begged me to 
say no more. This I promised readily, nev- 


er wishing to make mischief; and I said, 
u Good sir, now take the book, and I will go 
on to my business.” But he answered that 
he would do no such thing ; for the book 
alone, being hurled so hard, would convict 
his people of a lewd assault ; and he begged 
me, if I would do a good turn, to put the 
book under my coat and go. And so I did 
— in part, at least. For I did not put the 
book under my coat, but went along with 
it openly, looking for any to challenge it. 
Now this book, so acquired, has been not 
only the joy of my younger days, and main 
delight of my manhood, but also the com- 
fort, and even the hope, of my now declin- 
ing years. In a word, it is next to my Bible 
to me, and written in equal English ; and 
if you espy any goodness whatever in my 
own loose style of writing, you must not 
thank me, John Ridd, for it, but the writer 
who holds the champion’s belt in wit, as I 
once did in wrestling. 

Now, as nothing very long abides, it can 
not be expected that a woman’s anger should 
last very long, if she be at all of the prop- 
er sort. And my mother, being one of the 
very best, could not long retain her wrath 
against the Squire Faggus ; especially when 
she came to reflect, upon Annie’s suggestion, 
how natural, and, one might say, how inev- 
itable it was that a young man fond of ad- 
venture and change, and winning good prof- 
its by jeopardy, should not settle down 
without some regret to a fixed abode and a 
life of sameness, however safe and respecta- 
ble. And even as Annie put the case, Tom 
deserved the greater credit for vanquishing 
so nobly these yearnings of his nature ; and 
it seemed very hard to upbraid him, consid- 
ering how good his motives were; neither 
could Annie understand how mother could 
reconcile it with her knowledge of the Bi- 
ble, and the one sheep that was lost, and the 
hundredth piece of silver, and the man that 
went down to Jericho. 

Whether Annie’s logic was good and sound, 
I am sure I can not tell ; but it seemed to me 
that she ought to have left the Jericho trav- 
eler alone, inasmuch as he rather fell among 
Tom Fagguses than resembled them. How- 
ever, her reasoning was too much for moth- 
er to hold out against ; and Tom was re- 
placed, and more than that, being regarded 
now as an injured man. But how my moth- 
er contrived to know, that because she had 
been too hard upon Tom, he must be right 
about the necklace, is a point which I never 
could clearly perceive, though no doubt she 
could explain it. 

To prove herself right in the conclusion, 
she went herself to fetch Lorna, that the 
trinket might be examined before the day 
grew dark. My darling came in, with a 
very quick glance and smile at my cigarro 
(for I was having the third by this time, to 
keep things in amity) ; and I waved it to- 


166 


LORNA DOONE. 


ward her, as much as to say, “ You see that 
I can do it.” Aud then mother led her up 
to the light, for Tom to examine her neck- 
lace. 

On the shapely curve of her neck it hung, 
like dew-drops upon a white hyacinth ; and 
I was vexed that Tom should have the chance 
to see it there. But even as if she had read 
my thoughts, or outrun them with her own, 
Lorna turned away, and softly took the jew- 
els from the place which so much adorned 
them. And as she turned away, they spark- 
led through the rich dark waves of hair. 
Then she laid the glittering circlet in my 
mother’s hands, and Tom Faggus took it ea- 
gerly, and bore it to the window. 

“ Don’t you go out of sight,” I said ; “ you 
can not resist such things as those, if they 
be what you think them.” 

“Jack, I shall have to trounce thee yet. 
I am now a man of honor, and entitled to 
the duello. What will you take for it, Mis- 
tress Lorna ? At a hazard, say, now.” 

“ I am not accustomed to sell things, sir,” 
replied Lorna, who did not like him much, 
else she would have answered sportively, 
“ What is it worth, in your opinion ?” 

“Do you think it is worth five pounds, 
now ?” 

“Oh no! I never had so much money as 
that in all my life. It is very bright, and 
very pretty; but it can not be worth five 
pounds, I am sure.” 

“ What a chance for a bargain ! Oh, if it 
were not for Annie, I could make my for- 
tune.” 

“ But, sir, I would not sell it to you, not 
for twenty times five pounds. My grand- 
father was so kind about it ; and I think it 
belonged to my mother.” 

“There are twenty -five rose diamonds 
in it, and twenty -five large brilliants that 
can not be matched in London. How say 
you, Mistress Lorna, to a hundred thousand 
pounds?” 

My darling’s eyes so flashed at this, bright- 
er than any diamonds, that I said to myself, 
“Well, all have faults; and now I have 
found out Lorna’s — she is fond of money !” 
And then I sighed rather heavUy ; for of all 
faults this seems to me one of the worst in 
a woman. But even before my sigh was fin- 
ished, I had cause to condemn myself. For 
Lorna took the necklace very quietly from 
the hand of Squire Faggus, who had not 
half done with admiring it, and she went 
up to my mother with the sweetest smile I 
ever saw. 

“ Dear kind mother, I am so glad,” she 
said in a whisper, coaxing mother out of 
sight of all but me ; “ now you will have it, 
won’t you, dear ? And I shall be so happy ; 
for a thousandth part of your kindness to 
me no jewels in the world can match.” 

I can not lay before you the grace with 
which she did it, all the air of seeking fa- 


vor, rather than conferring it, and the high' 
bred fear of giving offense, which is of all 
fears the noblest. Mother knew not what 
to say. Of course she would never dream 
of taking such a gift as that ; and yet she 
saw how sadly Lorna would be disappoint- 
ed. Therefore mother did from habit what 
she almost always did — she called me to 
help her. But knowing that my eyes were 
full — for any thing noble moves me so, quite 
as rashly as things pitiful — I pretended not 
to hear my mother, but to see a wild-cat in 
the dairy. 

Therefore I can not tell what mother said 
in reply to Lorna; for when I came back 
quite eager to let my love know how I wor- 
shiped her, and how deeply I was ashamed 
of myself for meanly wronging her in ray 
heart, behold Tom Faggus had gotten again 
the necklace which had such charms for 
him, and was delivering all around (but 
especially to Annie, who was wondering 
at his learning) a dissertation on precious 
stones, and his sentiments about those in 
his hand. He said that the work was very 
ancient, but undoubtedly very good; the 
cutting of every line was true, and every 
angle was in its place. And this he said 
made all the difference in the lustre of the 
stone, and therefore in its value. For if the 
facets were ill-matched, and the points of 
light so ever little out of perfect harmony, 
all the lustre of the jewel would be loose 
and wavering, and the central fire dulled, 
instead of answering, as it should, to all 
possibilities of gaze, and overpoweriug any 
eye intent on its deeper mysteries. We 
laughed at the squire’s dissertation; for 
how should he know all these things, being 
nothing better, and indeed much worse, than 
a mere Northmolton blacksmith ? He took 
our laughter with much good-nature, having 
Annie to squeeze his hand and convey her 
grief at our ignorance ; but he said that of 
one thing he was quite certain, and therein 
I believed him : to wit, that a trinket of 
this kind never could have belonged to any 
ignoble family, but to one of the very high- 
est and most wealthy in England. And, 
looking at Lorna, I felt that she must have 
come from a higher source than the very 
best of diamonds. 

Tom Faggus said that the necklace was 
made, he would answer for it, in Amsterdam, 
two or three hundred years ago, long before 
London jewelers had begun to meddle with 
diamonds ; and on the gold clasp he found 
some letters, done in some inverted way, the 
meaning of which was beyond him ; also a 
bearing of some kind, which he believed was 
a mountain-cat. And thereupon he declared 
that now he had earned another glass of 
schnapps, and would Mistress Lorna mix it 
for him ? 

I was amazed at his impudence ; and An- 
nie, who thought this her business, did not 


LORNA DOONE. 


167 


Hook best pleased ; and I hoped that Lorna 
would tell him at once to go and do it for 
himself. But instead of that she rose to do 
it with a soft humility, which went direct 
to the heart of Tom ; and he leaped up with 
a curse at himself, and took the hot water 
from her, and would not allow her to do any 
thing except to put the sugar in ; and then 
he bowed to her grandly. I knew what 
Lorna was thinking of; she was thinking 
all the time that her necklace had been 
taken by the Doones with violence upon 
some great robbery, and that Squire Fag- 
gus knew it, though he would not show his 
knowledge ; and that this was perhaps the 
reason why mother had refused it so. 

We said no more about the necklace for a 
long time afterward ; neither did my darling 
wear it, now that she knew its value, but 
did not know its history. She came to me 
the very next day, trying to look cheerful, 
and begged me, if I loved her (never mind 
how little), to take charge of it again, as I 
once had done before, and not even to let 
her know in what place I stored it. I told 
her that this last request I could not com- 
ply with ; for having been round her neck 
so often, it was now a sacred thing, more 
than a million pounds could be. Therefore 
it should dwell for the present in the neigh- 
borhood of toy heart, and so could not be 
far from her. At this she smiled her own 
sweet smile, and touched my forehead with 
her lips, and wished that she could only 
learn how to deserve such love as mine. 

Tom Faggus took his good departure, 
which was a kind farewell to me, on the 
very day I am speaking of, the day after his 
arrival. Tom was a thoroughly upright 
man, according to his own standard; and 
you might rely upon him always, up to a 
certain point, I mean, to be there or there- 
abouts. But sometimes things were too 
many for Tom, especially with ardent spir- 
its, and then he judged, perhaps too much, 
with only himself for the jury. At any 
rate, I would trust him fully, for candor and 
for honesty, in almost every case in which 
he himself could have no interest. And 
so we got on very well together; and he 
thought me a fool, and I tried my best not 
to think any thing worse of him. 

Scarcely was Tom clean out of sight, and 
Annie’s tears not dry yet (for she always 
made a point of crying upon his depart- 
ure), when in came Master Jeremy Stickles, 
splashed with mud from head to foot, and 
not in the very best of humors, though hap- 
py to get back again. 

“Curse those fellows!” he cried, with a 
fctamp which sent the water hissing from his 
boot among the embers ; “ a pretty plight you 
may call this, for His Majesty’s Commission- 
er to return to his head-quarters in! Annie, 
my dear,” for he was always very affable 
with Annie, “ will you help me off with my 


overalls, and then turn your pretty hand to 
the gridiron ? Not a blessed morsel have I 
touched for more than twenty-four hours.” 

“ Surely, then, you must be quite starv- 
ing, sir,” my sister replied with the greatest 
zeal ; for she did love a man with an appe- 
tite ; “ how glad I am that the fire is clear !” 
But Lizzie, who happened to be there, said, 
with her peculiar smile, 

“ Master Stickles must be used to it ; for 
he never comes back without telling us 
that.” 

“ Hush !” cried Annie, quite shocked with 
her ; “ how would you like to be used to it ? 
Now, Betty, be quick with the things for 
me. Pork, or mutton, or deer’s meat, sir? 
We have some cured since the autumn.” 

“ Oh, deer’s meat, by all means,” Jeremy 
Stickles answered; “I have tasted none 
since I left you, though dreaming of it often. 
Well, this is better than being chased over 
the moors for one’s life, John. All the way 
from Landacre Bridge, I have ridden a race 
for my precious life, at the peril of my limbs 
and neck. Three great Doones galloping 
after me, and a good job for me that they 
were so big, or they must have overtaken 
me. Just go and see to my horse, John, 
that’s an excellent lad. He deserves a good 
turn, this day, from me ; and I will render it 
to him.” 

However, he left me to do it, while he 
made himself comfortable : and in truth the 
horse required care; he was blown so that 
he could hardly stand, and plastered with 
mud, and steaming so that the stable was 
quite full with it. By the time I had put 
the poor fellow to rights, his master had 
finished dinner, and was in a more pleasant 
humor, having even offered to kiss Annie, 
out of pure gratitude, as he said ; but Annie 
answered with spirit that gratitude must 
not be shown by increasing the obligation. 
Jeremy made reply to this that his only way 
to be grateful then was to tell us his story ; 
and so he did, at greater length than I can 
here repeat it ; for it does not bear particu- 
larly upon Lorna’s fortunes. 

It appears that as he was riding toward 
us from the town of Southmolton, in Dev- 
onshire, he found the roads very soft and 
heavy, and the floods out in all directions ; 
but met with no other difficulty until he 
came to Landacre Bridge. He had only a 
single trooper with him — a man not of the 
militia but of the King’s army, whom Jere- 
my had brought from Exeter. As these two 
descended toward the bridge, they observed 
that both the Kensford water and the River 
Barle were pouring down in mighty floods 
from the melting of the snow. So great in- 
deed was the torrent, after they united, that 
only the parapets of the bridge could be seen 
above the water, the road across either bank 
being covered, and very deep on the hither 
side. The trooper did not like the look of 


168 


LORNA DOONE. 


it, and proposed to ride back again, and 
round by way of Simonsbatb, where the 
stream is smaller. But Stickles would not 
have it so, and, dashing into the river, swam 
his horse for the bridge, and gained it with 
some little trouble ; and there he found the 
water not more than up to his horse’s knees, 
perhaps. On the crown of the bridge he 
turned his horse, to watch the trooper’s pas- 
sage, and to help him with directions ; when 
suddenly he saw him fall headlong into the 
torrent, and heard the report of a gun from 
behind, and felt a shock to his own body, 
such as lifted him out of the saddle. Turn- 
ing round, he beheld three men risen up from 
behind the hedge on one side of his onward 
road, two of them ready to load again, and 
one with his gun unfired, waiting to get 
good aim at him. Then Jeremy did a gal- 
lant thing, for which I doubt whether I 
should have had the presence of mind in 
the danger. He saw that to swim his horse 
back again would be almost certain death ; 
as affording such a target where even a 
wound must be fatal. Therefore he struck 
the spurs into the nag, and rode through the 
water straight at the man who was pointing 
the long gun at him. If the horse had been 
carried off his legs, there must have been 
an end of Jeremy ; for the other men were 
getting ready to have another shot at him. 
But luckily the horse galloped right on, 
without any need for swimming, being him- 
self excited, no doubt, by all he had seen and 
heard of it. And Jeremy lay almost flat on 
his neck, so as to give little space for good 
aim, with the mane tossing wildly in front 
of him. Now if that young fellow with the 
gun had had his brains as ready as his flint 
was, he would have shot the horse at once, 
and then had Stickles at his mercy ; but in- 
stead of that he let fly at the man, and miss- 
ed him altogether, being scared, perhaps, 
by the pistol which Jeremy showed him the 
mouth of. And galloping by at full speed, 
Master Stickles tried to leave his mark be- 
hind him; for he changed the aim of his 
pistol to the biggest man, who was loading 
his gun and cursing like ten cannons. But 
the pistol missed fire, no doubt from the 
flood which had gurgled in over the hol- 
sters ; and Jeremy seeing three horses teth- 
ered at a gate just up the hill, knew that 
he had not yet escaped, but had more of 
danger behind him. He tried his other great 
pistol at one of the horses tethered there, so 
as to lessen (if possible) the number of his 
pursuers. But the powder again failed him ; 
and he durst not stop to cut the bridles, 
hearing the men coming up the hill. So he 
even made the most of his start, thanking 
God that his weight was light, compared at 
least to what theirs was. 

And another thing he had noticed which 
gave him some hope of escaping — to wit, 
that the horses of the Doones, although very 


handsome animals, were suffering still from 
the bitter effects of the late long frost and 
the scarcity of fodder. u If they do not catch 
me op, or shoot me, in the course of the first 
two miles, I may see my home again this 
was what he said to himself, as he turned 
to mark what they were about from the 
brow of the steep hill. He saw the flood- 
ed valley shining with the breadth of water, 
and the trooper’s horse on the other side, 
shaking his drenched flanks and neighing ; 
and half-way down the hill he saw the three 
Doones mounting hastily. And then he 
knew that his only chance lay in the stout- 
ness of his steed. 

The horse was in pretty good condition ; 
and the rider knew him thoroughly, and 
how to make the most of him ; and though 
they had traveled some miles that day 
through very heavy ground, the , bath in 
the river had washed the mud off, and been 
some refreshment. Therefore Stickles en- 
couraged his nag, and put him into a good 
hand gallop, heading away toward Withy- 
combe. At first he had thought of turning 
to the right, and making off for Withypool, 
a mile or so down the valley ; but his good 
sense told him that no one there would dare 
to protect him against the Doones, so he re- 
solved to go on his way, yet faster than he 
had intended. 

The three villains came after him with all 
the speed they could muster, making sure, 
from the badness of the road, that he must 
stick fast ere long, and so be at their mercy. 
And this was Jeremy’s chiefest fear ; for the 
ground being soft and thoroughly rotten, af- 
ter so much frost and snow, the poor horse 
had terrible work of it, with no time to pick 
the way ; and even more good luck than 
skill was needed to keep him from founder- 
ing. How Jeremy prayed for an Exmoor 
fog (such as he had often sworn at), that 
he might turn aside and lurk, while his pur- 
suers went past him ! But no fog came, nor 
even a storm to damp the priming' of their 
guns ; neither was wood or coppice nigh, nor 
any place to hide in ; only hills, and moor, 
and valleys, with flying shadows over them, 
and great banks of snow in the corners. At 
one time poor Stickles was quite in despair ; 
for after leaping a little brook which cross- 
es the track at Newland, he stuck fast in a 
“ dancing bog,” as we call them upon Ex- 
moor. The horse had broken through the 
crust of moss and sedge and marish-weed, 
and could do nothing but wallow and sink, 
with the black water spirting over him. 
And Jeremy, struggling with all his might, 
saw the three villains now topping the crest 
less than a furlong behind him, and heard 
them shout, in their savage delight. With 
the calmness of despair, he yet resolved to 
have one more try for it ; and scrambling over 
the horse’s head, gained firm land, and tug- 
ged at the bridle. The poor nag replied with 


LORNA DOONE. 


169 


all his power to the call upon his courage, 
aud reared his fore-feet out of the slough, 
and with straining eyeballs gazed at him. 
“Now,” said Jeremy, “now, my fine fel- 
low !” lifting him with the bridle ; and the 
brave beast gathered the roll of his loins, 
and sprang from his quagmired haunches. 
One more spring, and he was on earth again, 
instead of being under it ; and Jeremy leap- 
ed on his back, and stooped, for he knew 
that they would fire. Two bullets whistled 
over him, as the horse, mad with fright, 
dashed forward; and in five minutes more 
he had come to the Exe, and the pursuers 
had fallen behind him. The Exe, though a 
much smaller stream than the Barle, now 
ran in a foaming torrent, unbridged, aud too 
wide for leaping. But Jeremy’s horse took 
the water well; and both he and his rider 
were lightened, as well as comforted by it. 
And as they passed toward Lucott hill, and 
struck upon the founts at Lynn, the horses 
of the three pursuers began to tire under 
them. Then Jeremy Stickles knew that if 
he could only escape the sloughs, he was 
safe for the present ; and so he stood up in 
his stirrups, and gave them a loud halloo, as 
if they had been so many foxes. 

Their only answer was to fire the remain- 
ing charge at him ; but the distance was too 
great for any aim from horseback ; and the 
dropping bullet idly plowed the sod upon 
one side of him. He acknowledged it with 
a wave of his hat, and laid one thumb to his 
nose, in the manner fashionable in London 
for expression of contempt. However, they 
followed him yet farther, hoping to make 
him pay out dearly, if he should only miss 
the track, or fall upon morasses. But the 
neighborhood of our Lynn stream is not so 
very boggy ; and the King’s messenger now 
knew his way as well as any of his pursuers 
did ; and so he arrived at Plover’s Barrows, 
thankful, and in rare appetite. 

“ But was the poor soldier drowned ?” ask- 
ed Annie ; “ and you never went to look for 
him ! Oh, how very dreadful !” 

“ Shot or drowned, I know not which. 
Thank God it was only a trooper. But they 
shall pay for it as dearly as if it had been a 
captain.” 

“ And how was it you were struck by a 
bullet, and only shaken in your saddle? 
Had you a coat of mail on, or of Milanese 
chain -armor? Now, Master Stickles, had 
you ?” 

“No, Mistress Lizzie; we do not wear 
things of that kind nowadays. You are apt, 
I perceive, at romances. But I happened to 
have a little flat bottle of the best stone- 
ware slung beneath my saddle-cloak, and 
filled with the very best eau de vie , from the 
George Hotel at Southmolton. The brand 
of it now is upon my back. Oh the murder- 
ous scoundrels, what a brave spirit they 
have spilled !” 


“ You had better set to and thank God,” 
said I, “ that they have not spilled a braver 
one.” 


CHAPTER XL VIII. 

EVERY MAN MUST DEFEND HIMSELF. 

It was only right in Jeremy Stickles, and 
of the simplest common sense, that he would 
not tell before our girls what the result of 
his journey was. But he led me aside in 
the course of the evening, and told me all 
about it, saying that I knew, as well as 
he did, that it was not woman’s business. 
This I took, as it was meant, for a gentle 
caution that Lorna (whom he had not seen 
as yet) must not be informed of any of his 
doings. Herein I quite agreed with him ; 
not only for his furtherance, but because I 
always think that women, of whatever mind, 
are best when least they meddle with the 
things that appertain to men. 

Master Stickles complained that the 
weather had been against him bitterly, clos- 
ing all the roads around him ; even as it had 
done with us. It had taken him eight days, 
he said, to get from Exeter to Plymouth ; 
whither he found that most of the troops 
had been drafted off from Exeter. When 
all were told, there was but a battalion of 
one of the King’s horse regiments, and two 
companies of foot-soldiers; and their com- 
manders had orders, later than the date of 
Jeremy’s commission, on no account to quit 
the southern coast and march inland. There- 
fore, although they would gladly have come 
for a brush with the celebrated Doones, it 
was more than they durst attempt, in the 
face of their instructions. However, they 
spared him a single trooper, as a companion 
of the road, and to prove to the justices of 
the county, and the lord-lieutenant, that he 
had their approval. 

To these authorities Master Stickles now 
was forced to address himself, although he 
would rather have had one trooper than a 
score from the very best train-bands. For 
these train-bands had afforded very good 
soldiers in the time of the civil wars, and for 
some years afterward; but now their disci- 
pline was gone, and the younger generation 
had seen no real fighting. Each would have 
his own opinion, and would want to argue it ; 
and if he were not allowed, he went about 
his duty in such a temper as to prove that 
his own way was the best. 

Neither was this the worst of it ; for Jer- 
emy made no doubt but what (if he could 
only get the militia to turn out in force) 
he might manage, with the help of his own 
men, to force the stronghold of the enemy ; 
but the truth was that the officers, knowing 
how hard it would be to collect their men at 
that time of the year, and in that state of 
the weather, began with one accord to make 


170 


LORNA DOONE. 


©very possible excuse. And especially tliey 
pressed this point, that Bagworthy was not 
in their county ; the Devonshire people af- 
firming vehemently that it lay in the shire 
of Somerset, and the Somersetshire folk aver- 
ring, even with imprecations, that it lay in 
Devonshire. Now I believe the truth to be 
that the boundary of the two counties, as 
well as of Oare and Brendon parishes, is de- 
fined by the Bagworthy river ; so that the 
disputants on both sides were both right 
and wrong. 

Upon this, Master Stickles suggested, and 
as I thought very sensibly, that the two coun- 
ties should unite, and equally contribute to 
the extirpation of this pest, which shamed 
and injured them both alike. But hence 
arose another difficulty; for the men of 
Devon said they would march when Somer- 
set had taken the field; and the sons of 
Somerset replied that indeed they were quite 
ready, but what were their cousins of Dev- 
onshire doing ? And so it came to pass that 
the King’s Commissioner returned without 
any army whatever, but with promise of 
two hundred men when the roads should be 
more passable. And meanwhile, what were 
we to do, abandoned as we were to the mer- 
eies of the Doones, with only our own hands 
to help us ? And herein I grieved at my 
own folly in having let Tom Faggus go, 
whose wit and courage would have been 
worth at least half a dozen men to us. Upon 
this matter I held long council with my good 
friend Stickles; telling him all about Lor- 
na’s presence, and what I knew of her his- 
tory. He agreed with me that we could not 
hope to escape an attack from the outlaws, 
and the more especially now that they knew 
himself to be returned to us. Also he 
praised me for my forethought in having 
threshed out all our corn, and hidden the 
produce in such a manner that they were 
not likely to find it. Furthermore, he rec- 
ommended that all the entrances to the 
house should at once be strengthened, and a 
watch must be maintained at night ; and he 
thought it wiser that I should go (late as 
it was) to Lynmouth, if a horse could pass 
the valley, and fetch every one of his mount- 
©d troopers who might now be quartered 
there. Also, if any men of courage, though 
capable only of handling a pitchfork, could 
be found in the neighborhood, I was to try 
to summon them. But our district is so 
thinly peopled, that I had little faith in 
this ; however, my errand was given me, and 
I set forth upon it, for John Fry was afraid 
of the waters. 

Knowing how fiercely the floods were out, 
I resolved to travel the higher road, by Cos- 
gate and through Countisbury ; therefore I 
swam my horse through the Lynn at the 
ford below our house (where sometimes you 
may step across), and thence galloped up 
and along the hills. I could see all the in- 


land valleys ribboned with broad waters, 
and in every winding crook the banks of 
snow that fed them ; while on my right the 
turbid sea was flaked with April showers. 
But when I descended the hill toward Lyn- 
mouth, I feared that my journey was all in 
vain. 

For the East Lynn (which is our river) 
was ramping and roaring frightfully, lashing 
whole trunks of trees on the rocks, and rend- 
ing them, and grinding them. And into it 
rushed from the opposite side a torrent even 
madder, upsetting what it came to aid; 
shattering wave with boiling billow, and 
scattering wrath with fury. It was certain 
death to attempt the passage, and the little 
wooden foot-bridge had been carried away 
long ago. And the men I was seeking must 
be, of course, on the other side of this del- 
uge, for on my side there was not a single 
house. 

I followed the bank of the flood to the 
beach, some two or three hundred yards be- 
low, and there had the luck to see Will Wat- 
combe on the opposite side, calking an old 
boat. Though I could not make him hear a 
word, from the deafening roar of the torrent, 
I got him to understand at last that I want- 
ed to cross over. Upon this he fetched an- 
other man, and the two of them launched a 
boat ; and paddling well out to sea, fetched 
round the mouth of the frantic river. The 
other man proved to be Stickles’s chief 
mate ; and so he went back and fetched his 
comrades, bringing their weapons, but leav- 
ing their horses behind. As it happened, 
there were but four of them. However, to 
have even these was a help ; and I started 
again at full speed for my home, for the men 
must follow afoot, and cross our river high 
up on the moor-land. 

This took them a long way round, and 
the track was rather bad to find, and the 
sky already darkening ; so that I arrived at 
Plover’s Barrows more than two hours be- 
fore them. But they had done a sagacious 
thing, which was well worth the delay ; for 
by hoisting their flag upon the hill, they 
fetched the two watchmen from the Fore- 
land, and added them to their number. 

It was lucky that I came home so soon ; 
for I found the house in a great commotion, 
and all the women trembling. When I ask- 
ed what the matter was, Lorna, who seemed 
the most self-possessed, answered that it 
was all her fault, for she alone had fright- 
ened them. And this in the following man- 
ner : She had stolen out to the garden to- 
ward dusk, to watch some favorite hyacinths 
just pushing up, like a baby’s teeth, and 
just attracting the fatal notice of a great 
house -snail at night-time. Lorna at last 
had discovered the glutton, and was bearing 
him off in triumph to the tribunal of the 
ducks, when she descried two glittering eyes 
glaring at her steadfastly from the elder- 


LORNA DOONE. 


171 


bush beyond the stream. The elder was 
smoothing its wrinkled leaves, being at least 
two months behind time ; and among them 
this calm cruel face appeared, and she knew 
it was the face of Carver Doone. 

The maideu, although so used to terror 
(as she told me once before), lost all presence 
of mind hereat, and could neither shriek 
nor fly, but only gaze, as if bewitched. Then 
Carver Doone, with his deadly smile, gloat- 
ing upon her horror, lifted his long gun, and 
pointed full at Lorna’s heart. In vain she 
strove to turn away ; fright had stricken 
her stiff as stone. With the inborn love of 
life, she tried to cover the vital part where- 
in the winged death must lodge — for she 
knew Carver’s certain aim — but her hands 
hung numbed and heavy : in nothing but 
her eyes was life. 

With no sign of pity in his face, no quiver 
of relentiug, but a well-pleased grin at all 
the charming palsy of his victim, Carver 
Doone lowered, inch by inch, the muzzle of 
his gun. When it pointed to the ground, 
between her delicate arched insteps, he 
pulled the trigger, and the bullet flung the 
mould all over her. It was a refinement 
of bullying, for which I swore to God that 
night upon my knees, in secret, that I would 
smite down Carver Doone, or else he should 
smite me down. Base beast! what largest 
humanity, or what dreams of divinity, could 
make a man put up with this ? 

My darling (the loveliest and most harm- 
less in the world of maidens) fell away on a 
bank of grass, and wept at her own coward- 
ice ; and trembled, and wondered where I 
was, and what I would think of this. Good 
God ! What could I think of it ? She over- 
rated my slow nature, to admit the question. 

While she leaned there, quite unable yet 
to save herself, Carver came to the brink of 
the flood, which alone was between them ; 
and then he stroked his jet-black beard, and 
waited for Lorna to begin. Very likely he 
thought that she would thauk him for his 
kindness to her. But she was now recov- 
ering the power of her nimble limbs ; and 
ready to be off like hope, and wonder at her 
own cowardice. 

“ I have spared you this time/’ he said, 
in his deep calm voice, “only because it 
suits my plans, and I never yield to temper. 
But unless you come back to-morrow, pure, 
and with all you took away, and teach me 
to destroy that fool, who has destroyed him- 
self for you, your death is here, your death 
is here, where it has long been waiting.” 

Although his gun was empty, he struck 
the breech of it with his finger ; and then 
he turned away, not deigning even once to 
look back again; and Lorna saw his giant 
figure striding across the meadow-land as if 
the Ridds were nobodies, and he the prop- 
er owner. Both mother and I were greatly 
hurt at hearing of this insolence : for we had 


owned that meadow from the time of the 
great Alfred ; and even when that good king 
lay in the Isle of Athelney, he had a Ridd 
along with him. 

Now I spoke to Lorna gently, seeing how 
much she had been tried ; and I praised her 
for her courage in not having run away, 
when she was so unable ; and my darling 
was pleased with this, and smiled upon me 
for saying it ; though she knew right well 
that in this matter my judgment was not 
impartial. But you may take this as a gen- 
eral rule, that a woman likes praise from 
the man whom she loves, and can not stop 
always to balance it. 

Now expecting a sharp attack that night 
— which Jeremy Stickles the more expect- 
ed after the words of Carver, which seemed 
to be meant to mislead us — we prepared a 
great quantity of knuckles of pork, and a 
ham in full cut, and a fillet of hung mutton. 
For we would almost surrender rather than 
keep our garrison hungry. And all our 
men were exceedingly brave, and counted 
their rounds of the house in half-pints. 

Before the maidens went to bed, Lorna 
made a remark which seemed to me a very 
clever one, aud then I wondered how on 
earth it had never occurred to me before. 
But first she had done a thing which I could 
not in the least approve of : for she had gone 
up to my mother, and thrown herself into 
her arms, and begged to be allowed to return 
to Glen Doone. 

“ My child, are you unhappy here ?” moth- 
er asked her very gently, for she had be- 
gun to regard her now as a daughter of her 
own. 

“ Oh no ! Too happy — by far too happy, 
Mrs. Ridd. I never knew rest or peace be- 
fore, or met with real kindness. But I can 
not be so ungrateful, I can not be so wicked, 
as to bring you all into deadly peril for my 
sake alone. Let me go : you must not pay 
this great price for my happiness.” 

“ Dear child, we are paying no price at 
all,” replied my mother, embracing her; 
“ we are not threatened for your sake only. 
Ask John ; he will tell you. He knows ev- 
ery bit about politics, and this is a political 
matter.” 

Dear mother was rather proud in her heart, 
as well as terribly frightened, at the im- 
portance now accruing to Plover’s Barrows 
farm ; and she often declared that it would 
be as famous in history as the Rye House, 
or the meal-tub, or even the great black box, 
in which she was a firm believer : and even 
my knowledge of politics could not move 
her upon that matter. “ Such things had 
happened before,” she would say, shaking 
her head with its wisdom, “ and why might 
they not happen again ? Women would be 
women, and men would be men, to the end 
of the chapter ; and if she had been in Lucy 
Water’s place, she would keep it quiet, as 


172 


LORNA DOONE. 


she had done ;” and then she would look 
round, for fear lest either of her daughters 
had heard her ; “ but now, can you give me 
any reason why it may not have been so ? 
You are so fearfully positive, John : just as 
men always are.” “ No,” I used to say ; “ I 
can give you no reason, why it may not have 
been so, mother. But the question is, if it 
was so, or not ; rather than what it might 
have been. And I think it is pretty good 
proof against it, that what nine men of ev- 
ery ten in England would only too gladly 
believe, if true, is nevertheless kept dark 
from them.” “There you are again, John,” 
mother would reply, “all about men, and 
not a single word about women. If you had 
any argument at all, you would own that 
marriage is a question upon which women 
are the best judges.” “ Oh !” I would groan 
in my spirit, and go ; leaving my dearest 
mother quite sure that now at last she must 
have convinced me. But if mother had 
known that Jeremy Stickles was working 
against the black box and its issue, I doubt 
whether he would have fared so well, even 
though he was a visitor. However, she 
knew that something was doing, and some- 
thing of importance ; and she trusted in God 
for the rest of it. Only she used to tell me, 
very seriously, of an evening, “The very 
least they can give you, dear John, is a coat 
of arms. Be sure you take nothing less, 
dear ; and the farm can well support it.” 

But lo! I have left Lorna ever so long, 
anxious to consult me upon political mat- 
ters. She came to me, and her eyes alone 
asked a hundred questions, which I rather 
had answered upon her lips, than troubled 
her pretty ears with them. Therefore I told 
her nothing at all, save that the attack (if 
any should be) would not be made on her 
account ; and that if she should hear by any 
chance a trifle of a noise in the night, she 
was to wrap the clothes around her, and 
shut her beautiful eyes again. On no ac- 
count, whatever she did, was she to go to 
the window. She liked my expression about 
her eyes, and promised to do the very best 
she could ; and then she crept so very close, 
that I needs must have her closer ; and, with 
her head on my breast, she asked, 

“ Can’t you keep out of this fight, John ?” 

“ My own one,” I answered, gazing through 
the long black lashes at the depths of radi- 
ant love ; “ I believe there will be nothing : 
but what there is I must see out.” 

“ Shall I tell you what I think, John ? 
It is only a fancy of mine, and perhaps it is 
not worth telling.” 

“ Let us have it, dear, by all means. You 
know so much about their ways.” 

“ What I believe is this, John. You know 
how high the rivers are — higher than ever 
they were before, and twice as high, you 
have told me. I believe that Glen Doone 
is flooded, and all the houses under water.” 


“ You little witch,” I answered ; “ what a 
fool I must be not to think of it ! Of course 
it is : it must be. The torrent from all the 
Bagworthy forest, and all the valleys above 
it, and the great drifts in the glen itself, 
never could have outlet down my famous 
water-slide. The valley must be under wa- 
ter twenty feet at least. Well, if ever there 
was a fool, I am he, for not having thought 
of it.” 

“I remember once before,” said Lorna, 
reckoning on her fingers, “ when there was 
very heavy rain all through the autumn and 
winter, five or it may be six years ago, the 
river came down with such a rush that the 
water was two feet deep in our rooms, and 
we all had to camp by the cliff-edge. But 
you think that the floods are higher now, I* 
believe I heard you say, John.” 

“ I don’t think about it, my treasure,” I 
answered; “you may trust me for under- 
standing floods, after our work at Tiverton. 
And I know that the deluge in all our val- 
leys is such as no living man can remember, 
neither will ever behold again. Consider 
three months of snow, snow, snow, and a 
fortnight of rain on the top of it, and all to 
be drained in a few days away ! And great 
barricades of ice still in the rivers blocking 
them up and ponding them. You may take 
my word for it, Mistress Lorna, that your 
pretty bower is six feet deep.” 

“Well, my bower has served its time,” 
said Lorna, blushing as she remembered all 
that had happened there ; “ and my bower 
now is here, John. But I am so sorry to 
think of all the poor women flooded out 
of their houses and sheltering in the snow- 
drifts. However, there is one good of it : 
they can not send many men against us, 
with all this trouble upon them.” 

“ You are right,” I replied : “ how clever 
you are! and that is why there were only 
three to cut off Master Stickles. And now 
we shall beat them, I make no doubt, even 
if they come at all. And I defy them to fire 
the house : the thatch is too wet for burn- 
ing.” 

We sent all the women to bed quite early, 
except Gwenny Carfax and our old Betty. 
These two we allowed to stay up, because 
they might be useful to us, if they could 
keep from quarreling. For my part I had 
little fear, after what Lorna had told me, as 
to the result of the combat. It was not like- 
ly that the Doones could bring more than 
eight or ten men against us while their 
homes were in such danger; and to meet 
these we had eight good men, including Jer- 
emy and myself, all well-armed and reso- 
lute, besides our three farm-servants, and the 
parish - clerk, and the shoe -maker. These 
five could not be trusted much for any val- 
iant conduct, although they spoke very con- 
fidently over their cans of cider. Neither 
were their weapons fitted for much execu- 


LORNA DOONE. 


173 


lion, unless it were at close quarters, wliicli 
they would be likely to avoid. Bill Dadds 
bad a sickle, Jem Slocombe a flail, the cob- 
bler bad borrowed the constable’s staff (for 
the constable would not attend, because there 
was no warrant), and the parish-clerk had 
brought his pitch-pipe, which was enough 
to break any man’s head. But John Fry, 
of course, had his blunderbuss, loaded with 
tin -tacks and marbles, and more likely to 
kill the man who discharged it than any 
other person ; but we knew that John had 
it only for show, and to describe its qualities. 

Now it was my great desire, and my chief- 
est hope, to come across Carver Doone that 
night and settle the score between us, not 
by any shot in the dark, but by a conflict 
man to man. As yet, since I came to full- 
grown power, I had never met any one whom 
I could not play teetotum with : but now 
at last I had found a man whose strength 
was not to be laughed at. I could guess it 
in his face, I could tell it in his arms, I could 
see it in his stride and gait, which more than 
all the rest betray the substance of a man. 
And being so well used to wrestling, and to 
judge antagonists, I felt that here (if any- 
where) I had found my match. 

Therefore I was not content to abide with- 
in the house, or go the rounds with the 
troopers; but betook myself to the rick- 
yard, knowing that the Doones were likely 
to begin their onset there. For they had 
a pleasant custom, when they visited farm- 
houses, of lighting themselves toward pick- 
ing up any thing they wanted, or stabbing 
the inhabitants, by first creating a blaze in 
the rick-yard. And though our ricks were 
all now of mere straw (except indeed two of 
prime clover-hay), and although on the top 
they were so wet that no firebrands might 
hurt them, I was both unwilling to have 
them burned, and fearful that they might 
kindle, if well roused up with fire upon the 
windward side. 

By -the -bye, these Doones had got the 
worst of this pleasant trick one time. For 
happening to fire the ricks of a lonely farm 
called Yeanworthy, not far above Glen- 
thorne, they approached the house to get 
people’s goods, and to enj-oy their terror. 
The master of the farm was lately dead, and 
had left inside the clock - case, loaded, the 
great long gun, wherewith he had used to 
sport at the ducks and the geese on the 
shore. Now Widow Fisher took out this 
gun, and not caring much what became of 
her (for she had loved her husband dearly), 
she laid it upon the window-sill, which look- 
ed upon the rick-yard ; and she backed up 
the butt with a chest of oak drawers, and 
she opened the window a little back, and let 
the muzzle out on the slope. Presently five 
or six fine young Doones came dancing a 
reel (as their manner was) betwixt her and 
the flaming rick. Upon which she pulled ' 


the trigger with all the force of her thumb, 
and a quarter of a pound of duck-shot went 
out with a blaze on the dancers. You may 
suppose what their dancing was, and their 
reeling how changed to staggering, and their 
music none of the sweetest. One of them 
fell into the rick, and was burned, and bur- 
ied in a ditch next day ; but the others were 
set upon their horses, and carried home on 
a path of blood. And strange to say, they 
never avenged this very dreadful injury; 
but having heard that a woman had fired 
this desperate shot among them, they said 
that she ought to be a Doone, and inquired 
how old she was. 

Now I had not been so very long waiting 
in our mow-yard, with my best gun ready, 
and a big club by me, before a heaviness of 
sleep began to creep upon me. The flow of 
water was in my ears, and in my eyes a hazy 
spreading, and upon my brain a closure, as 
a cobbler sews a vamp up. So I leaned 
back in the clover-rick, and the dust of the 
seed and the smell came round me without 
any trouble; and I dozed about Lorna just 
once or twice, and what she had said about 
new -mown hay; and then back went my 
head, and my chin went up ; and if ever a 
man was blessed with slumber, down it came 
upon me, and away went I into it. 

Now this was very vile of me, and against 
all good resolutions, even such as I would 
have sworn to an hour ago or less. But if 
you had been in the water as I had, ay, and 
had long fight with it, after a good day’s 
work, and then great anxiety afterward, and 
brain- work (which is not fair for me), and 
upon that a stout supper, mayhap you would 
not be so hard on my sleep ; though you felt 
it your duty to wake me. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

MAIDEN SENTINELS ARE BEST. 

It was not likely that the outlaws would 
attack our premises until some time after 
the moon was risen; because it would be 
too dangerous to cross the flooded valleys in 
the darkness of the night. And but for this 
consideration, I must have striven harder 
against the stealthy approach of slumber. 
But even so, it was very foolish to abandon 
watch, especially in such as I, who sleep like 
any dormouse. Moreover, I had chosen the 
very worst place in the world for such em- 
ployment, with a goodly chance of awaking 
in a bed of solid fire. 

And so it might have been, nay, it must 
have been, but for Lorna’s vigilance. Her 
light hand upon my arm awoke me, not too 
readily; and leaping up, I seized my club, 
and prepared to knock down somebody. 

“ Who’s that?” I cried: “stand back, I 
say, and let me have fair chance at you.” 


174 


LORNA DOONE. 


“ Are you going to knock me down, dear 
John?” replied the voice I loved so well: 
“I am sure I should never get up again, 
after one blow from you, J ohn.” 

“ My darling, is it you ?” I cried ; “ and 
breaking all your orders ? Come back into 
the house at once : and nothing on your head, 
dear 1” 

“ How could I sleep, while at any moment 
you might be killed beneath my window ? 
And now is the time of real danger ; for men 
can see to travel.” 

I saw at once the truth of this. The moon 
was high, and clearly lighting all the wa- 
tered valleys. To sleep any longer might 
be death, not only to myself, but all. 

“ The man on guard at the back of the 
house is fast asleep,” she continued ; “ Gwen- 
ny, who let me out, and came with me, has 
heard him snoring for two hours. I think 
the women ought to be the watch, because 
they have had no traveling. Where do you 
suppose little Gwenny is ?” 

“ Surely not gone to Glen Doone ?” I was 
not sure, however; for I could believe almost 
any thing of the Cornish maiden’s hardihood. 

“ No,” replied Lorna, “ although she want- 
ed even to do that. But of course I would 
not hear of it, on account of the swollen 
waters. But she is perched in yonder tree, 
which commands the Barrow valley. She 
says that they are almost sure to cross the 
streamlet there ; and now it is so wide and 
large, that she can trace it in the moonlight 
half a mile beyond her. If they cross she 
is sure to see them, and in good time to let 
us know.” 

“ What a shame,” I cried, “ that the men 
should sleep, and the maidens be the sol- 
diers ! I will sit in that tree myself, and 
send little Gwenny back to you. Go to bed, 
my best and dearest ; I will take good care 
not to sleep again.” 

“ Please not to send me away, dear John,” 
she answered very mournfully : “ you and 
I have been together through perils worse 
than this. I shall only be more timid, and 
more miserable, indoors.” 

“ I can not let you stay here,” I said ; “ it 
is altogether impossible. Do you suppose 
that I can fight, with you among the bul- 
lets, Lorna? If this is the way you mean to 
take it, we had better go both to the apple- 
room, and lock ourselves in, and hide under 
the tiles, and let them burn all the rest of 
the premises.” 

At this idea Lorna laughed, as I could see 
by the moonlight ; and then she said, 

“ You are right, John. I should only do 
more harm than good: and of all things I 
hate fighting most, and disobedience next 
to it. Therefore I will go indoors, although 
I can not go to bed. But promise me one 
thing, dearest John. You will keep your- 
self out of the way — now won’t you, as 
much as you can, for my sake ?” 


“ Of that you may be quite certain, Lorna* 
I will shoot them all through the hay-ricks.” 

“That is right, dear,” she answered, never 
doubting but what I could do it ; “ and then 
they can not see you, you know. But don’t 
' thiuk of climbing that tree, John ; it is a 
; great deal too dangerous. It is all very well 
for Gwenny ; she has no bones to break.” 

“ None worth breaking, you mean, I sup- 
pose. Very well ; I will not climb the tree, 
for I should defeat my own purpose, I fear ; 
being such a conspicuous object. Now go 
indoors, darling, without more words. The 
more you linger, the more I shall keep you.” 

She laughed her own bright laugh at 
this, and only said, “ God keep you, love !” 
and then away she tripped across the yard, 
with the step I loved to watch so. And 
thereupon I shouldered arms, and resolved 
to tramp till morning. For I was vexed at 
my own neglect, and that Lorna should have 
to right it. 

But before I had been long on duty, mak- 
ing the round of the ricks and stables, and 
hailing Gwenny now and then from the bot- 
tom of her tree, a short wide figure stole to- 
ward me, in and out the shadows, and I saw 
that it was no other than the little maid her- 
self, and that she bore some tidings. 

“ Ten on ’em crossed the watter down yon- 
ner,” said Gwenny, putting her hand to her 
mouth, and seeming to regard it as good 
news rather than otherwise : “ be arl crap- 
ing up by hedgerow now. I could shutt 
dree on ’em from the bar of the gate, if so 
be I had your goon, young man.” 

“ There is no time to lose, Gwenny. Run 
to the house and fetch Master Stickles, and. 
all the men, while I stay here and watch 
the rick-yard.” 

Perhaps I was wrong in heeding the ricks 
at such a time as that, especially as only 
the clover was of much importance. But 
it seemed to me like a sort of triumph that 
they should even be able to boast of having 
fired our mow-yard. Therefore I stood in a 
nick of the clover, whence we had cut some 
trusses, with my club in hand, and gun close 

t>y- 

The robbers rode into our yard as coolly 
as if they had been invited, having lifted the 
gate from the hinges first, on account of its 
being fastened. Then they actually opened 
our stable doors, and turned our honest jiorses 
out, and put their own rogues in the place of 
them. At this my breath was quite taken 
away ; for we think so much of our horses. 
By this time I could see our troopers wait- 
ing in the shadow of the house round the 
corner from where the Doones were, and ex- 
pecting the order to fire ; but Jeremy Stickles 
very wisely kept them in readiness until the 
enemy should advance upon them. 

“Two of you lazy fellows go,” it was the 
deep voice of Carver Doone, “ and make us 
i a light to cut their throats by. Only one 


LORNA DOONE. 


175 


thing, once again. If any man touches Lor- 
na, I will stab him where he stands. She 
belongs to me. There are two other young 
damsels here, whom you may take away if 
you please. And the mother, I hear, is still 
comely. Now for our rights. We have 
borne too long the insolence of these yokels. 
Kill every man and every child, and burn 
the cursed place down.” 

As he spoke thus blasphemously, I set my 
gun against his breast ; and by the light 
buckled from his belt, I saw the little 
“ sight” of brass gleaming alike upon either 
side, and the sleek round barrel glimmering. 
The aim was sure as death itself. If I only 
drew the trigger (which went very lightly), 
Carver Doone would breathe no more. And 
yet — will you believe me ? — I could not pull 
the trigger. Would to God that I had done 
so! 

For I never had taken human life, neither 
done bodily harm to man, beyond the little 
bruises, and the trifling aches and pains, 
which follow a good and honest bout in the 
wrestling ring. Therefore I dropped my 
carbine, and grasped again my club, which 
seemed a more straightforward implement. 

Presently two young men came toward 
me, bearing brands of resined hemp, kindled 
from Carver’s lamp. The foremost of them 
set his torch to the rick within a yard of 
me, the smoke concealing me from him. I 
struck him with a back-handed blow on the 
elbow, as he bent it, and I heard the bone of 
his arm break as clearly as ever I heard a 
twig snap. With a roar of pain he fell on 
the ground, and his torch dropped there, and 
singed him. The other man stood amazed 
at this, not having yet gained sight of me, 
till I caught his firebrand from his hand, and 
struck it into his countenance. With that 
he leaped at me; but I caught him, in a 
manner learned from early wrestling, and 
snapped his collar-bone, as I laid him upon 
the top of his comrade. 

This little success so encouraged me, that 
I was half inclined to advance, and challenge 
Carver Doone to meet me; but I bore in 
mind that he would be apt to shoot me with- 
out ceremony; and what is the utmost of 
human strength against the power of pow- 
der ? Moreover, I remembered my promise 
to sweet Lorna; and who would be left to 
defend her, if the rogues got rid of me ? 

While I was hesitating thus (for I always 
continue to hesitate, except in actual con- 
flict) a blaze of fire lit up the house, and 
brown smoke hung around it. Six of our 
men had let go at the Doones, by Jeremy 
Stickles’s order, as the villains came swag- 
gering down iu the moonlight ready for rape 
or murder. Two of them fell, and the rest 
hung back, to think at their leisure what 
this was. They were not used to this sort 
of thing: it was neither just nor courteous. 

Being unable any longer to contain my- 


self, as I thought of Lorna’s excitement at 
all this noise of firing, I came across the yard,, 
expecting whether they would shoot at me. 
However, no one shot at me; and I went up 
to Carver Doone, whom I knew by his size 
in the moonlight, and I took him by the 
beard, and said, “Do you call yourself a 
man V’ 

For a moment he was so astonished that 
he could not answer. None had ever dared, 
I suppose, to look at him in that way ; and 
he saw that he had met his equal, or perhaps 
his master. And then he tried a pistol at 
me ; but I was too quick for him. 

“Now, Carver Doone, take warning,” I 
said to him, very soberly ; “ you have shown 
yourself a fool by your contempt of me. I 
may not be your match in craft, but I am in 
manhood. You are a despicable villain. Lie 
low in your native muck.” 

And with that word I laid him flat upon 
his back in our straw -yard by a trick of the 
inner heel, which he could not have resisted 
(though his strength had been twice as great 
as mine) unless he were a wrestler. Seeing 
him down, the others ran, though one of them 
made a shot at me, and some of them got 
their horses before our men came up, and 
some went away without them. And among 
these last was Captain Carver, who arose 
while I was feeling myself (for I had a little 
wound), and strode away with a train of 
curses enough to poison the light of the 
moon. 

We gained six very good horses by this 
attempted rapine, as well as two young pris- 
oners, whom I had smitten by the clover- 
rick. And two dead Doones were left be- 
hind, whom (as we buried them in the 
church-yard, without any service over them) 
I, for my part, was most thankful that I had 
not killed. For to have the life of a fellow- 
man laid upon one’s conscience — deserved 
he his death, or deserved it not — is, to my 
sense of right and wrong, the heaviest of all 
burdens ; and the one that wears most deep- 
ly inward, with the dwelling of the mind on 
this view and on that of it. 

I was inclined to pursue the enemy and 
try to capture more of them ; but Jeremy 
Stickles would not allow it, for he said that 
all the advantage would be upon their side, 
if we went hurrying after them, with only 
the moon to guide us. And who could tell 
but what there might be another band of 
them, ready to fall upon the house, and burn 
it, and seize the women, if we left them un- 
protected ? When he put the case thus, I 
was glad enough to abide by his decision. 
And one thing was quite certain, that the 
Doones had never before received so rude 
a shock, and so violent a blow to their su- 
premacy, since first they had built up their 
power, and become the lords of Exmoor. I 
knew that Carver Doone would gnash those 
mighty teeth of his, and curse the men 


17(5 


LORNA DOONE. 


around him, for the blunder (which was in 
truth his own) of overconfidence and care- 
lessness. And at the same time, all the rest 
would feel that such a thing had never hap- 
pened while old Sir Ensor was alive, and 
that it was caused by nothing short of gross 
mismanagement. 

I scarcely know who made the greatest 
fuss about my little wound — mother, or An- 
nie, or Lorna. I was heartily ashamed to 
be so treated like a milksop ; but, most un- 
luckily, it had been impossible to hide it. 
For the ball had cut along my temple just 
above the eyebrow ; and being fired so near 
at hand, the powder, too, had scarred me. 
Therefore it seemed a great deal worse than 
it really was ; and the sponging, and the 
plastering, and the sobbing, and the moan- 
ing, made me quite ashamed to look Master 
Stickles in the face. 

However, at last I persuaded them that I 
had no intention of giving up the ghost that 
night ; and then they all fell to, and thank- 
ed God with an emphasis quite unknown in 
church. And hereupon Master Stickles said, 
in his free and easy manner (for no one court- 
ed his observation) that I was the luckiest 
of all mortals in having a mother, and a sis- 
ter, and a sweetheart, to make much of me. 
For his part, he said, he was just as well off 
in not having any to care for him. For 
now he might go and get shot, or stabbed, 
or knocked on the head, at his pleasure, 
without any one being offended. I made 
bold, upon this, to ask him what was be- 
come of his wife ; for I had heard him 
speak of having one. He said that he nei- 
ther knew nor cared ; and perhaps I should 
be like him some day. That Lorna should 
hear such sentiments, was very grievous to 
me. But she looked at me with a smile, 
which proved her contempt for all such 
ideas; and lest any thing still more unfit 
might be said, I dismissed the question. 

But Master Stickles told me afterward, 
when there was no one with us, to have 
no faith in any woman, whatever she might 
seem to be. For he assured me that now he 
possessed very large experience, for so small 
a matter, being thoroughly acquainted with 
women of every class, from ladies of the 
highest blood to Bonarobas and peasants’ 
wives : and that they all might be divided 
into three heads, and no more ; that is to 
say, as follows : First, the very hot and pas- 
sionate, who were only contemptible ; sec- 
ond, the cold and indifferent, who were sim- 
ply odious ; and third, the mixture of the 
other two, who had the bad qualities of 
both. As for reason, none of them had it : 
it was like a sealed book to them, which if 
they ever tried to open, they began at the 
back of the cover. 

Now I did not like to hear such things ; 
and to me they appeared to be insolent, as 
well as narrow-minded. For if you came to 


that, why might not men, as well as women, 
be divided into the same three classes, and 
be pronounced upon by women as beings 
even more devoid than their gentle judges 
of reason ? Moreover I knew, both from my 
own sense, and from the greatest of all great 
poets, that there are, and always have been, 
plenty of women, good and gentle, warm- 
hearted, loving, and lovable ; very keen, 
moreover, at seeing the right, be it by rea- 
son or otherwise. And upon the whole I 
prefer them much to the people of my own 
sex, as goodness of heart is more important 
than to show good reason for having it. 
And so I said to Jeremy, 

“ You have been ill treated, perhaps, Mas- 
ter Stickles, by some woman or other ?” 

“Ay, that have I,” he replied, with an 
oath; “and the last on earth who should 
serve me so, the woman who was my wife. 
A woman whom I never struck, never wrong- 
ed in any way, never even let her know that 
I liked another better. And yet when I was 
at Berwick last, with the regiment on guard 
there against those vile moss-troopers, what 
does that woman do but fly in the face of 
all authority, and of my especial business, 
by running away herself with the biggest 
of all moss-troopers? Not that I cared a 
groat about her; and I wish the fool well 
rid of her; but the insolence of the thing 
was such that every body laughed at me ; 
and back I went to London, losing a far bet- 
ter and safer job than this; and all through 
her. Come, let’s have another onion.” 

Master Stiekles’s view of the matter was 
so entirely unromantic, that I scarcely won- 
dered at Mistress Stickles for having run 
away from him to an adventurous moss- 
trooper. For nine women out of ten must 
have some kind of romance or other, to make 
their lives endurable ; and when their love 
has lost this attractive element, this soft 
dew-fog (if such it be), the love itself is apt 
to languish, unless its bloom be well replaced 
by the budding hopes of children. Now 
Master Stickles neither had, nor wished to 
have, any children. 

Without waiting for any warrant, only 
saying something about “ captus in flagrante 
delicto ” — if that be the way to spell it — 
Stickles sent our prisoners off, bound, and 
looking miserable, to the jail at Taunton. 
I was desirous to let them go free, if they 
would promise amendment ; but although I 
had taken them, and surely, therefore, had 
every right to let them go again, Master 
Stickles said, “Not so.” He assured me 
that it was a matter of public polity ; and 
of course, not knowing what he meant, I 
could not contradict him, but thought that 
surely my private rights ought to be re- 
spected. For if I throw a man in wrest- 
ling, I expect to get his stakes ; and if I 
take a man prisoner, why, he ought, in com- 
mon justice, to belong to me, and I have a 


LORNA DOONE. 


177 


good right to let him go, if I think proper to 
do so. However, Master Stickles said that 
I was quite benighted, and knew nothing of 
the Constitution ; which was the very thing 
I knew beyond any man in our parish ! 

Nevertheless, it was not for me to contra- 
dict a commissioner ; and therefore I let my 
prisoners go, and wished them a happy de- 
liverance. Stickles replied, with a merry 
grin, that if they ever got it, it would he a 
jail deliverance, and the bliss of danciug; 
and he laid his hand to his throat in a man- 
ner which seemed to me most uncourteous. 
However, hi3 foresight proved too correct ; 
for both those poor fellows were executed 
soon after the next Assizes. Lorna had 
done her very best to earn another chance 
for them ; even going down on her knees 
to that common Jeremy, and pleading with 
great tears for them. However, although 
much moved by her, he vowed that he durst 
do nothing else. To set them free was more 
than his own life was worth; for all the 
country knew by this time that two cap- 
tive Doones were roped to the cider-press at 
Plover’s Barrows. Annie bound the broken 
arm of the one whom I had knocked down 
with the club, and I myself supported it ; 
and then she washed and rubbed with lard 
the face of the other poor fellow which the 
torch had injured ; and I fetched back his 
collar-bone to the best of my ability. For 
before any surgeon could arrive, they were 
off with a well-armed escort. That day we 
were re-enforced so strongly from the sta- 
tions along the coast, even as far as Mine- 
head, that we not only feared no farther 
attack, but even talked of assaulting Glen 
Doone without waiting for the train-bands. 
However, I thought that it would be mean 
to take advantage of the enemy in the thick 
of the floods and confusion ; and several of 
the others thought so too, and did not like 
fighting in water. Therefore it was resolved 
to wait and keep a watch upon the valley, 
and let the floods go down again. 


CHAPTER L. 

A MERRY MEETING A «AD ONE. 

Now the business I had. most at heart (as 
every one knows by this time) was to marry 
Lorna as soon as might be, if she had no ob- 
jection, and then to work the farm so well 
as to nourish all our family. And herein I 
saw no difficulty ; for Annie would soon be 
off our hands, and somebody might come and 
take a fancy to little Lizzie ( who was grow- 
ing up very nicely now, though not so fine 
as Annie) ; moreover, we were almost sure 
to have great store of hay and corn after so 
much snow, if there he any truth in the old 
saying, 


“ A foot deep of rain 
Will kill hay and grain: 

But three feet of snow 
Will make them come mo’.” 

And although it was too true that we had 
lost a-many cattle, yet even so we had not 
lost money ; for the few remaining fetched 
such prices as were never known before. 
And though we grumbled with all our 
hearts, and really believed at oue time that 
starvation was upon us, I doubt whether, on 
the whole, we were not the fatter, and the 
richer, and the wiser, for that winter. And 
I might have said the happier, except for the 
sorrow which we felt at the failures among 
our neighbors. The Snowes lost every sheep 
they had, and nine out of ten horned cattle ; 
and poor Jasper Kebby would have been 
forced to throw up the lease of his farm, and 
perhaps to go to prison, but for the help we 
gave him. 

However, my dear mother would have it 
that Lorna was too young, as yet, to think 
of being married ; and indeed I myself was 
compelled to admit that her form was be- 
coming more perfect and lovely, though I 
had not thought it possible. And another 
difficulty was, that as we had all been Prot- 
estants from the time of Queen Elizabeth, 
the maiden must be converted first, and 
taught to hate all Papists. Now Lorna had 
not the smallest idea of ever being convert- 
ed. She said that she loved me truly, but 
wanted not to convert me ; and if I loved her 
equally, why should I wish to convert her ? 
With this I was tolerably content, not seeing 
so very much difference between a creed and 
a credo, and believing God to be our Father, 
in Latin as well as English. Moreover, my 
darling knew but little of the Popish ways 
— whether excellent, or otherwise — inas- 
much as the Doones, though they stole their 
houses, or at least the joiner’s work, had 
never been tempted enough by the devil to 
steal either church or chapel. 

Lorna came to our little church when 
Parson Bowden re-appeared after the snow 
was over; and she said that all was very 
nice, and very like what she had seen in the 
time of her aunt Sabina, when they went 
far away to the little chapel, with a shilling 
in their gloves. It made the tears come into 
her eyes, by the force of memory, when Par- 
son Bowden did the things, not so gracefully 
nor so well, yet with pleasant imitation of 
her old priest’s sacred rites. 

“ He is a worthy man,” she said, being 
used to talk in the service -time, and my 
mother was obliged to cough : “ I like him 
very much indeed : but I wish he would let 
me put his things the right way on his 
shoulders.” 

Every body in our parish who could walk 
at all, or hire a boy and a wheelbarrow, ay, 
and half the folk from Countisbury, Bren- 
don, and even Lynmouth, was and were to 


12 


178 


LOENA DOONE. 


be found that Sunday in our little church of 
Oare. People who would not come anigh 
us, when the Doones were threatening with 
carbine and with fire-brand, flocked in their 
very best clothes to see a lady Doone go 
to church. Now all this came of that vile 
John Fry; I knew it as well as possible; 
his tongue was worse than the clacker of a 
charity-school bell, or the ladle in the frying- 
pan, when the bees are swarming. 

However, Lorna was not troubled ; partly 
because of her natural dignity and gentle- 
ness, partly because she never dreamed that 
the people were come to look at her. But 
when we came to the Psalms of the day, 
with some vague sense of being stared at 
more than ought to be, she dropped the 
heavy black lace fringing of the velvet hat 
she wore, and concealed from the congrega- 
tion all except her bright red lips, and the 
oval snow-drift of her chin. I touched her 
hand, and she pressed mine ; and we felt 
that we were close together, and God saw 
no harm in it. 

As for Parson Bowden (as worthy a man 
as ever lived, and one who could shoot fly- 
ing), he scarcely knew what he was doing, 
without the clerk to help him. He had 
borne it very well indeed when I returned 
from London ; but to see a live Doone in his 
church, and a lady Doone, and a lovely Doone, 
moreover, one engaged to me, upon whom he 
almost looked as the Squire of his parish (al- 
though not rightly an Armiger), and to feel 
that this lovely Doone was a Papist, and 
therefore of higher religion — as all our par- 
sons think — and that she knew exactly how 
he ought to do all the service, of which he 
himself knew little, I wish to express my 
firm belief that all these things together 
turned Parson Bowden’s head a little, and 
made him look to me for orders. 

My mother, the very best of women, was 
(as I could well perceive) a little annoyed 
and vexed with things. For this particular 
occasion, she had procured from Dulver- 
ton, by special message to Ruth Huckaback 
(whereof more anon), a head-dress with a 
feather never seen before upon Exmoor, to 
the best of every one’s knowledge. It came 
from a bird called a flaming something — a 
flaming oh, or a flaming ah, I will not be 
positive — but I can assure you that it did 
flame ; and dear mother had no other thought 
but that all the congregation would neither 
see nor think of any other mortal thing, or 
immortal even, to the very end of the sermon. 

Herein she was so disappointed, that no 
sooner did she get home, but up stairs she 
went at speed, not even stopping at the mir- 
ror in our little parlor, and flung the whole 
thing into a cupboard, as I knew by the bang 
of the door, having eased the lock for her 
lately. Lorna saw there was something 
wrong; and she looked at Annie and Liz- 
zie (as more likely to understand it) with 


her former timid glance ; which I knew so*, 
well, and which had first enslaved me. 

" I know not what ails mother,” said An- 
nie, who looked very beautiful, with lilac 
lutestring ribbons, which I saw the Snowe 
girls envying ; " but she has not attended to 
one of the prayers, nor said 'Amen/ all the 
morning. Never fear, darling Lorna, it is 
nothing about you. It is something about 
our John, I am sure ; for she never worries 
herself very much about any body but him.” 
And here Annie made a look at me such as I 
had had five hundred of. 

" You keep your opinions to yourself,” I 
replied ; because I kuew the dear, and her 
little bits of jealousy ; “ it happens that you 
are quite wrong this time. Lorna, come with 
me, my darling.” 

“ Oh yes, Lorna ; go with him,” cried Liz- 
zie, dropping her lip, in a way which you 
must see to know its meaning ;• "John wants 
nobody now but you ; and none can find fault 
with his taste, dear.” 

" You Kttle fool, I should think not,” I 
answered very rudely ; for, betwixt the lot 
of them, my Lorna’s eyelashes were quiver- 
ing: "now, dearest angel, come with me;, 
and snap your hands at the whole of them.” 

My angel did come, with a sigh, and then 
with a smile, when we were alone, but with- 
out any unangelic attempt at snapping her 
sweet white fingers. 

These little things are enough to show 
that while every one so admired Lorna, and 
so kindly took to her, still there would, just 
now and then, be petty and paltry flashes 
of jealousy concerning her; and perhaps it 
could not be otherwise among so many wom- 
en. However, we were always doubly kind 
to her afterward; and although her mind 
was so sensitive and quick that she must 
have suffered, she never allowed us to per- 
ceive it, nor lowered herself by resenting it. 

Possibly I may have mentioned that little 
Ruth Huckaback had been asked, and had 
even promised to spend her Christmas with 
us; and this was the more desirable, be- 
cause she had left us through some offense, 
or sorrow, about things said of her. Now 
my dear mother, being the kindest and best- 
hearted of all women, could not bear that 
poor dear Ruth (who would some day have 
such a fortune) should be entirely lost to us. 

" It is our duty, my dear children,” she said 
more than once about it, " to forgive and. 
forget as freely as we hope to have it done 
to us. If dear little Ruth has not behaved 
quite as we might have expected, great al- 
lowance should be made for a girl with so 
much money. Designing people get hold 
of her, and flatter her, and coax her, to ob- 
tain a base influence over her ; so that when 
she falls among simple folk, who speak the 
honest truth of her, no wonder the poor child 
is vexed, and gives herself airs, and so on.. 
Ruth can be very useful to us in a number 


LORNA DOONE. 


179 


of little ways, and I consider it quite a duty 
to pardon her freak of petulance.” 

Now one of the little ways in which Ruth 
had been very useful was the purchase of 
the scarlet feathers of the flaming bird ; and 
now that the house was quite safe from at- 
tack, and the mark on my forehead was heal- 
ing, I was begged, over and over again, to go 
and see Ruth, and make all things straight, 
and pay for the gorgeous plumage. This 
last I was very desirous to do, that I might 
know the price of it, having made a small 
bet on the subject with Annie ; and having 
held counsel with myself whether or not it 
were possible to get something of the kind 
for Lorna of still more distinguished appear- 
ance. Of course she could not wear scarlet 
as yet, even if I had wished it ; but I be- 
lieved that people of fashion often wore pur- 
ple for mourning ; purple, too, was the roy- 
al color, and Lorna was by right a queen ; 
therefore I was quite resolved to ransack 
Uncle Reuben’s stores in search of some 
bright purple bird, if nature had kindly 
provided one. 

All this, however, I kept to myself, in- 
tending to trust Ruth Huckaback, and no 
one else, in the matter. And so, one beauti- 
ful spring morning, when all the earth was 
kissed with scent, and all the air caressed 
with song, up the lane I stoutly rode, well 
armed, and well provided. 

Now, though it is part of my life to heed, 
it is no part of my tale to tell, how the 
wheat was coming on. I reckon that you 
who read this story after I am dead and 
gone (and before that none shall read it) 
will say, “ Tush ! What is his wheat to us ? 
We are not wheat, we are human beings ; 
and all we care for is human doings.” This 
may be very good argument, and in the 
main I believe that it is so. Nevertheless, 
if a man is to tell only what he thought 
and did, and not what came around him, he 
must not mention his own clothes, which his 
father and mother bought for him. And 
more than my own clothes to me, ay, and 
as much as my own skin, are the works of 
nature round about, whereof a man is the 
smallest. 

And now I will tell you, although most 
likely only to be laughed at, because I can 
not put it in the style of Mr. Dryden — whom 
to compare to Shakspeare ! but if once I be- 
gin upon that, you will never hear the last 
of me — nevertheless, I will tell you this ; not 
wishing to be rude, but only just because I 
know it ; the more a man can fling his arms 
(so to say) round Nature’s neck, the more he 
can upon her bosom, like an infant, lie and 
suck, the more that man shall earn the 
trust and love of all his fellow-men- 

In this matter is no jealousy (when the 
man is dead); because thereafter all others 
know how much of the milk he had, and he 
can suck no longer ; and they value him ac- ! 


cordingly, for the nourishment he is to them. 
Even as when we keep a roaster of the suck- 
ing pigs, we choose, and praise at table most, 
the favorite of its mother. Fifty times have 
I seen this, and smiled, and praised our peo- 
ple’s taste, and offered them more of the 
vitals. 

Now here am I upon Shakspeare (who 
died, of his own fruition, at the age of fifty- 
two, yet lived more than fifty thousand 
men, within his little span of life), when all 
the while I ought to be riding as hard as I 
can to Dulverton. But, to tell the truth, I 
could not ride hard, being held at every turn, 
and often without any turn at all, by the 
beauty of things around me. These tilings 
grow upon a man if once he stops to notice 
them. 

It wanted yet two hours to noon, when I 
came to Master Huckaback’s door and struck 
the panels smartly. Knowing nothing of 
their manners, only that people in a town 
could not be expected to entertain (as we 
do in farm-houses), having, moreover, keen 
expectation of Master Huckaback’s avarice, 
I had brought some stuff to eat, made by 
Annie and packed by Lorna, and requiring 
no thinking about it. 

Ruth herself came and let me in, blushing 
very heartily ; for which color I praised her 
health, and my praises heightened it. That 
little thing had lovely eyes, and could be 
trusted thoroughly. I do like an obstinate 
little woman, when she is sure that she is 
right. And indeed if love had never sped 
me straight to the heart of Lorna (compared 
to whom, Ruth was no more than the thief 
is to the candle), who knows but what I 
might have yielded to the law of nature, 
that thorough trimmer of balances, and ver- 
ified the proverb that the giant loves the 
dwarf? 

“I take the privilege, Mistress Ruth, of 
saluting you according to kinship, and the 
ordering of the Canons.” And therewith I 
bussed her well, and put my arm around her 
waist, being so terribly restricted in the 
matter of Lorna, and knowing the use of 
practice. Not that I had any warmth — all 
that was darling Lorna’s — only out of pure 
gallantry, and my knowledge of London 
fashions. Ruth blushed to such a pitch at 
this, and looked up at me with such a gleam, 
as if I must have my own way, that all my 
love of kissing sunk, and I felt that I was 
wronging her. Only my mother had told 
me, when the girls were out of the way, to 
do all I could to please darling Ruth, and I 
had gone about it accordingly. 

Now Ruth as yet had never heard a word 
about dear Lorna ; and when she led me into 
the kitchen (where every thing looked beau- 
tiful), and told me not to mind for a moment 
about the scrubbing of my boots, because 
she would only be too glad to clean it all up 
after me, and told me how glad she* was to 


180 


LORNA DOONE. 


see me, blushing more at every word, and 
recalling some of them, and stooping down 
for pots and pans when I looked at her too 
ruddily — all these things came upon me so, 
without any legal notice, that I could only 
look at Ruth, and think how very good she 
was, and how bright her handles were, and 
wonder if I had wronged her. Once or 
twice I began — this I say, upon my honor — 
to endeavor to explain exactly how we were 
at Plover’s Barrows ; how we all had been 
bound, to fight, and had defeated the enemy, 
keeping their queen among us. But Ruth 
would make some great mistake between 
Lorna and Gweuny Carfax, and gave me no 
chance to set her aright, and cared about 
nothing much, except some news of Sally 
Snowe. 

What could I do with this little thing? 
All my sense of modesty, and value for my 
dinner, were against my overpressiug all 
the graceful hints I had given about Lorna. 
Ruth was just a girl of that sort, who will 
not believe one word, except from her own 
seeing; not so much from any doubt, as 
from the practice of using eyes which have 
been in business. 

I asked Cousin Ruth (as we used to call 
her, though the cousinship was distant) 
what was become of Uncle Ben, and how it 
was that we never heard any thing of or 
from him now. She replied that she hard- 
ly knew what to make of her grandfather’s 
manner of carrying on for the last half year 
or more. He was apt to leave his home, 
she said, at any hour of the day or night ; 
going none knew whither, and returning no 
one might say when. And his dress, in her 
opinion, was enough to frighten a hodman, 
or a scavenger of the roads, instead of the de- 
cent suit of kersey, or of Sabbath doeskins, 
such as had won the respect and reverence 
of his fellow-townsmen. But the worst of 
all things was, as she confessed with tears 
in her eyes, that the poor old gentleman had 
something weighing heavily on his mind. 

“ It will shorten his days, Cousin Ridd,” 
she said, for she never would call me Cousin 
John; “he has no enjoyment of any thing 
that he eats or drinks, nor even in counting 
his money, as he used to do all Sunday ; in- 
deed no pleasure in any thing, unless it be 
smoking his pipe, and thinking, and staring 
at bits of brown stone, which he pulls every 
now and then out of his pockets. And the 
business he used to take such pride in is 
now left almost entirely to the foreman and 
to me.” 

“And what will become of you, dear 
Ruth, if any thing happens to the old man ?” 

“ I am sure I know not,” she answered, 
simply ; “ and I can not bear to think of it. 
It must depend, I suppose, upon dear grand- 
father’s pleasure about me.” 

“ It must rather depend,” said I, though 
having no business to say it, “upon your 


own good pleasure, Ruth ; for all the world 
will pay court to you.” 

“ That is the very thing which I never 
could endure. I have begged dear grand- 
father to leave no chance of that. When he 
has threatened me with poverty, as he does 
sometimes, I have always met him truly, 
with the answer that I feared one thing a 
great deal worse than poverty, namely, to be 
an heiress. But I can not make him believe 
it. Only think how strange, Cousin Ridd, I 
can not make him believe it.” 

“It is not strange at all,” I answered; 
“ considering how he values money. Nei- 
ther would any one else believe you, except 
by looking into your true and very pretty 
eyes, dear.” 

Now I beg that no one will suspect for a 
single moment, either that I did not mean 
exactly what I said, or meant a single atom 
more, or would not have said the same, if 
Lorna had been standing by. What I had 
always Jiked in Ruth was the calm, straight- 
forward gaze and beauty of her large brown 
eyes. Indeed I had spoken of them to Lor- 
na, as the only ones to be compared (though 
not for more than a moment) to her own for 
truth and light, but never for depth and 
softness. But now the little maiden drop- 
ped them, and turned away without reply. 

“ I will go and see to my horse,” I said ; 
“the boy that has taken him seemed sur- 
prised at his having no horns on his fore- 
head. Perhaps he will lead him into the 
shop, and feed him upon broadcloth.” 

“ Oh, he is such a stupid boy,” Ruth an- 
swered, with great sympathy : “ how quick 
of you to observe that now : and you call 
yourself ‘Slow John Ridd!’ I never did see 
such a stupid boy : sometimes he spoils my 
temper. But you must be back in half an 
hour at the latest, Cousin Ridd. You see 
I remember what you are, when once you 
get among horses, or cows, or things of that 
sort.” 

“ Things of that sort ! Well done, Ruth ! 
One would think you were quite a Cockney.” 

Uncle Reuben did not come home to his 
dinner; and his granddaughter said she had 
strictest orders never to expect him. There- 
fore we had none to dine with us except the 
foreman of the shop, a worthy man, named 
Thomas Cockram, fifty years of age or so. He 
seemed to me to have strong intentions of 
his own about little Ruth ; and on that ac- 
count to regard me with a wholly undue 
malevolence. And perhaps, in order to jus- 
tify him, I may have been more attentive to 
her than otherwise need have been ; at any 
rate, Ruth and I were pleasant, and he the 
very opposite. 

“ My dear Cousin Ruth,” I said, on pur- 
pose to vex Master Cockram, because he 
eyed us so heavily, and squinted so unluck- 
ily, “ we have long been looking for you at 
our Plover’s Barrows farm. You remember 


LORNA DOONE. 


181 


how you used to love hunting for eggs in the 
morning, and hiding up in the tallat with 
Lizzie, for me to seek you among the hay, 
when the sun was down. Ah, Master Cock- 
ram, those are the things young people find 
their pleasure in, not in selling a yard of 
serge, and giving twopence - half -penny 
change, and writing ‘ settled’ at the bottom 
with a pencil that has blacked their teeth. 
Now, Master Cockram, you ought to come as 
far as our good farm at once, and eat two 
new-laid eggs for breakfast, and be made to 
look quite young again. Our good Aunie 
would cook for you ; and you should have 
the hot new milk, and the pope’s eye from 
the mutton ; and every foot of you would 
become a yard in about a fortnight.” And 
hereupon I spread my chest, to show him an 
example. Ruth could not keep her counte- 
nance : but I saw that she thought it wrong 
of me, and would scold me, if ever I gave her 
the chance of taking those little liberties. 
However, he deserved it all, according to my 
young ideas, for his great impertinence in 
aiming at my cousin. 

But what I said was far less grievous to a 
man of houest mind than little Ruth’s own 
behavior. I could hardly have believed that 
so thoroughly true a girl, and one so proud 
and upright, could have got rid of any man 
so cleverly as she got rid of Master Thomas 
Cockram. She gave him not even a glass of 
wine, but commended to his notice, with a 
sweet and thoughtful gravity, some invoice 
which must be corrected before her dear 
grandfather should return ; and to amend 
which, three great ledgers must be searched 
from first to last. Thomas Cockram wink- 
ed at me with the worst of his two wrong 
eyes ; as much as to say, “ I understand it ; 
but I can not help myself. Only you look 
out, if ever” — and before he had finished 
winking, the door was shut behind him. 
Then Ruth said to me in the simplest man- 
ner, “You have ridden far to-day, Cousin 
Ridd; and have far to ride to get home 
again. What will dear Aunt Ridd say if 
we send you away without nourishment? 
All the keys are in my keeping, and dear 
grandfather has the finest wine, not to be 
matched in the west of England, as I have 
beard good judges say; though I know not 
wine from cider. Do you like the wine of 
Oporto, or the wine of Xeres ?” 

“ I know not one from the other, fair cous- 
in, except by the color,” I answered : “ but 
the sound of Oporto is nobler, and richer. 
Suppose we try wine of Oporto.” 

The good little creature went and fetched 
a black bottle of an ancient cast, covered 
with dust and cobwebs. These I was anx- 
ious to shake aside ; and indeed I thought 
that the wine would be better for being 
roused up a little. Ruth, however, would 
not hear a single word to that purport ; and 
seeing that she knew more about it, I left 


her to manage it. And the result was \»ery 
fine indeed, to wit, a sparkling rosy liquor, 
dancing with little flakes of light, and scent- 
ed like new violets. With this I was so 
pleased and gay, and Ruth so glad to see me 
gay, that we quite forgot how the time went 
on ; and though my fair cousin would not be 
persuaded to take a second glass herself, she 
kept on filling mine so fast that it was never 
empty, though I did my best to keep it so. 

“ What is a little drop like this to a man 
of your size and strength, Cousin Ridd ?” she 
said, with her cheeks just brushed with rose, 
which made her look very beautiful: “I 
have heard you say that your head is so 
thick — or rather so clear, you ought to say 
— that no liquor ever moves it.” 

“ That is right enough,” I answered ; 
“ what a witch you must be, dear Ruth, to 
have remembered that now !” 

“ Oh, I remember every word I have ever 
heard you say, Cousin Ridd ; because your 
voice is so deep, you know, and you talk so 
little. Now it is useless to say ‘ no.’ These 
bottles hold almost nothing. Dear grand- 
father will not come home, I fear, until long 
after you are gone. What will Aunt Ridd 
think of me, I am sure? You are all so 
dreadfully hospitable. Now not another 
‘ no,’ Cousin Ridd. We must have another 
bottle.” 

“ Well, must is must,” I answered, with a 
certain resignation. “I can not bear bad 
manners, dear ; and how old are you next 
birthday ?” 

“Eighteen, dear John,” said Ruth, com- 
ing over with the empty bottle ; and I was 
pleased at her calling me “John,” and had 
a great mind to kiss her. However I thought 
of my Lorna suddenly, and of the anger I 
should feel if a man went on with her so ; 
therefore I lay back in my chair, to wait for 
the other bottle. 

“ Do you remember how we danced that 
night ?” I asked, while she was opening it ; 
“ and how you were afraid of me first, be- 
cause I looked so tall, dear ?” 

“ Yes, and so very broad, Cousin Ridd. I 
thought that you would eat me. But I have 
come to know since then how very kind and 
good you are.” 

“And will you come and dance again at 
my wedding, Cousin Ruth ?” 

She nearly let the bottle fall, the last of 
which she was sloping carefully into a ves- 
sel of bright glass ; and then she raised her 
hand again, and finished it judiciously. And 
after that she took the window, to see that 
all her work was clear ; and then she pour- 
ed me out a glass, and said, with very pale 
cheeks, but else no sign of meaning about 
her, “ What did you ask me, Cousin Ridd?” 

“ Nothing of any importance, Ruth : only 
we are so fond of you. I mean to be mar- 
ried as soon as I can. Will you come and 
help us ?” 


182 


LORNA DOONE. 


“ To be sure I will, Cousin Ridd — unless, 
unless, dear grandfather can not spare me 
from tlie business.” She went away, and 
her breast was heaving like a rick of under- 
carried hay. And she stood at the window 
long, trying to make yawns of sighs. 

For my part, I knew not what to do. 
And yet I could think about it as I never 
could with Lorna, with whom I was always 
in a whirl, from the power of my love. So 
I thought some time about it, and perceived 
that it was the manliest way just to tell her 
every thing, except that I feared she liked 
me. But it seemed to me unaccountable 
that she did not even ask the name of my 
intended wife. Perhaps she thought that it 
must be Sally, or perhaps she feared to trust 
her voice. 

“ Come and sit by me, dear Ruth, and list- 
en to a long, long story, how things have 
come about with me.” 

“No, thank you, Cousin Ridd,” she an- 
swered; “at least I mean that I shall be 
happy — that I shall be ready to hear you — 
to listen to you, I mean of course. But I 
would rather stay where I am, and have the 
air — or rather be able to watch for dear 
grandfather coming home. He is so kind 
and good to me. What should I do with- 
out him ?” 

Then I told her how, for years and years, 
I had been attached to Lorna, and all the 
dangers and difficulties which had so long 
beset us, and how I hoped that these were 
passing, and no other might come between 
us, except on the score of religion ; upon 
which point I trusted soon to overcome my 
mother’s objections. And then I told her 
how poor, and helpless, and alone in the 
world my Lorna was, and how sad all her 
youth had been until I brought her away at 
last. And many other little things I men- 
tioned, which there is no need for me again 
to dwell upon. Ruth heard it all without 
a word, and without once looking at me; 
and only by her attitude could I guess that 
she was weeping. Then, when all my tale 
was told, she asked in a low and gentle voice, 
but still without showing her face to me, 

“And does she love you, Cousin Ridd? 
Does she say that she loves you, with — with 
all her heart ?” 

“ Certainly she does,” I answered. “ Do 
you think it impossible for one like her to 
do so ?” 

She said no more, but crossed the room 
before I had time to look at her, and came 
behind my chair, and kissed me gently on 
the forehead. 

“ I hope you may be very happy with — I 
mean in your new life,” she whispered very 
softly ; “ as happy as you deserve to be, and 
as happy as you can make others be. Now 
how I have been neglecting you ! I am 
quite ashamed of myself for thinking only 
of grandfather, and it makes me so low-spir- 


ited. You have told me a very nice ro- 
mance, and I have never even helped you to 
a glass of wine. Here, pour it for your- 
self, dear cousin ; I shall be back again di- 
rectly.” 

With that she was out of the door in a 
moment: and when she came back, you 
would not have thought that a tear had 
dimmed those large bright eyes, or wander- 
ed down those pale clear cheeks. Only her 
hands were cold and trembling, and she 
made me help myself. 

Uncle Reuben did not appear at all ; and 
Ruth, who had promised to come and see us, 
and stay for a fortnight at our house (if her 
grandfather could spare her), now discover- 
ed, before I left, that she must not think of 
doing so. Perhaps she was right in deciding 
thus; at any rate, it had now became im- 
proper for me to press her. And yet I now 
desired tenfold that she should consent to 
come, thinking that Lorna herself would 
work the speediest cure of her passing 
whim. 

For such, I tried to persuade myself, was 
the nature of Ruth’s regard for me; and 
upon looking back I could not charge my- 
self with any misconduct toward the little 
maiden. I had never sought her company, 
I had never trifled with her (at least until 
that very day), and being so engrossed with 
my own love, I had scarcely ever thought 
of her. And the maiden would never have 
thought of me, except as a clumsy yokel, 
but for my mother’s and sister’s meddling, 
and their wily suggestions. I believe they 
had told the little soul that I was deeply in 
love with her, although they both stoutly 
denied it. But who can place trust in a 
woman’s word, when it comes to a question 
of match-making ? 


CHAPTER LI. 

A VISIT FROM THE COUNSELOR. 

Now while I was riding home that even- 
ing, with a tender conscience about Ruth, 
although not a wounded one, I guessed but 
little that all my thoughts were needed 
much for my own affairs. So, however, it 
proved to be; for as I came in, soon after 
dark, my sister Eliza met me at the corner 
of the cheese-room, and she said, “ Don’t go 
in there, John,” pointing to mother’s room, 
“until I have had a talk with you.” 

“ In the name of Moses,” I inquired, hav- 
ing picked up that phrase at Dulverton, 
“ what are you at about me now ? There 
is no peace for a quiet fellow.” 

“ It is nothing we are at,” she answered : 
“neither may you make light of it. It is 
something very important about Mistress 
Lorna Doone.” 

“ Let us have it at once,’ ; I cried : “ I can 


LORNA DOONE. 


183 


hear any thing about Lorna except that she 
floes not care for me.” 

“ It has nothing to do with that, John. 
And I am quite sure that you never need 
fear any thing of that sort. She perfectly 
wearies me sometimes, although her voice 
is so soft and sweet, about your endless per- 
fections.” 

“ Bless her little heart !” I said : “ the sub- 
ject is inexhaustible.” 

“ No doubt !” replied Lizzie, in the driest 
manner; “ especially to your sisters. How- 
ever, this is no time to joke. I fear you will 
get the worst of it, John. Do you know a 
man of about Gwenny’s shape, nearly as 
broad as be is long, but about six times the | 
size of Gwenny, and with a length of snow- i 
white hair, aud a thickness also, as the copses 
were last winter. He never can comb it, that 
is quite certain, with any comb yet invented.” 

“ Then you go and offer your services. 
There are few things you can not scarify. 
I know the man from your description, al- 
though I have never seen him. Now where 
is my Lorna?” 

“ Your Lorna is with Annie, having a 
good cry, I believe ; and Annie too glad to 
second her. She knows that this great man 
is here, aud knows that he wants to see her. 
But she begged to defer the interview until 
dear John’s return.” 

“What a nasty way you have of telling 
the very commonest piece of news !” I said, 
on purpose to pay her out. “ What man 
will ever fancy you, you unlucky little snap- 
per? Now no more nursery talk for me. 
I will go and settle this business. You had 
better go and dress your dolls, if you can 
give them clothes unpoisoned.” Hereupon 
Lizzie burst into a perfect roar of tears, 
feeling that she had the worst of it. And I 
took her up aud begged her pardon, although 
she scarcely deserved it ; for she knew that 
I was out of luck, and she might have spared 
her satire. 

I was almost sure that the man who was 
come must be the Counselor himself; of 
whom I felt much keener fear than of his 
son Carver. And knowing that his visit 
boded ill to me and Lorna, I went and 
sought my dear, and led her, with a heavy 
heart, from the maiden’s room to mother’s, 
to meet our dreadful visitor. 

Mother was standing by the door, making 
courtesies now and then, and listening to a 
long harangue upon the rights of state and 
land, which the Counselor (having found 
that she was the owner of her property, and 
knew liothing of her title to it) was encour- 
aged to deliver. My dear mother stood gaz- 
ing at him, spell-bound by his eloquence, 
and only hoping that he would stop. He 
was shaking his hair upon his shoulders, in 
the power of his words, and his wrath at 
some little thing, which he declared to be 
quite illegal. 


Then I ventured to show myself, in the 
flesh, before him, although he feigned not to 
see me ; but he advanced with zeal to Lor- 
na, holding out both hands at once. 

“ My darling child, my dearest niece, how 
wonderfully well you look ! Mistress Ridd, 
I give you credit. This is the country of 
good things. I never would have believed 
our Queen could have looked so royal. Sure- 
ly, of all virtues hospitality is the finest, and 
the most romantic. Dearest Lorna, kiss your 
uncle ; it is quite a privilege.” 

“ Perhaps it is to you, sir,” said Lorna, 
who could never quite check her sense of 
oddity ; “ but I fear that you have smoked 
tobacco, which spoils reciprocity.” 

“ You are right, my child. How keen 
your scent is ! It is always so with us. 
Your grandfather was noted for his olfac- 
tory powers. Ah, a great loss, dear Mrs. 
Ridd — a terrible loss to this neighborhood! 
As one of our great writers says — I think it 
must be Milton — ‘We ne’er shall look upon 
his like again.’ ” 

“ With your good leave, sir,” I broke in, 
“Master Milton could never have written so 
sweet and simple a line as that. It is one 
of the great Shakspeare.” 

“Woe is me for my neglect!” said the 
Counselor, bowing airily; “this must be 
your son, Mistress Ridd, the great John, the 
wrestler. And one who meddles with the 
Muses ! Ah, since I was young, how every 
thing is changed, madam ! Except, indeed, 
the beauty of women, which seems to me to 
increase every year.” Here the old villain 
bowed to my mother ; and she blushed, and 
made another courtesy, and really did look 
very nice. 

“Now, though I have quoted the poets 
amiss, as your son informs me (for which I 
tender my best thanks, and must amend my 
reading), I can hardly be wrong in assum- 
ing that this young armiger must be the too 
attractive cynosure to our poor little maid- 
en. And, for my part, she is welcome to 
him. I have never been one of those who 
dwell upon distinctions of rank, and birth, 
and such like ; as if they were in the heart 
of nature, and must be eternal. In early 
youth I may have thought so, aud been full 
of that little pride. But now I have long 
accounted it one of the first axioms of polit- 
ical economy — you are following me, Mis- 
tress Ridd ?” 

“ Well, sir, I am doing my best ; but I can 
not quite keep up with you.” 

“ Never mind, madam ; I will be slower. 
But your son’s intelligence is so quick — ” 

“ I see, sir ; you thought that miue must 
be. But no; it all comes from his father, 
sir. His father was that quick and clever — ” 

“Ah, I can well suppose it, madam. And 
a credit he is to both of you. Now, to re- 
turn to our muttons — a figure which you 
will appreciate — I may now be regarded, I 


184 


LORNA DOONE. 


think, as this young lady’s legal guardian, 
although I have not had the honor of being 
formally appointed such. Her father was 
the eldest son of Sir Ensor Doone, and I 
happened to be the second son ; and as 
young maidens can not be baronets, I sup- 
pose I am 1 Sir Counselor.’ Is it so, Mistress 
Ridd, according to your theory of geneal- 
ogy ?” 

“ I am sure I don’t know, sir,” my mother 
answered carefully : “ I know not any thing 
of that name, sir, except in the Gospel of 
Matthew; but I see not why it should be 
otherwise.” 

“Good, madam! I may look upon that 
as your sanction and approval, and the col- 
lege of heralds shall hear of it. And in re- 
turn, as Lorna’s guardian, I give my full and 
ready consent to her marriage with your son, 
madam.” 

“Oh how good of you, sir — how kind! 
Well, I always did say that the learnedest 
people were almost always the best and 
kindest, and the most simple-hearted.” 

“ Madam, that is a great sentiment. What 
a goodly couple they will be ! and if we can 
add him to our strength — ” 

“ Oh no, sir, oh no !” cried mother : “ you 
really must not think of it. He has always 
been brought up so honest — ” 

“Hem! that makes a difference. A de- 
cided disqualification for domestic life among 
the Doones. But, surely, he might get over 
those prejudices, madam ?” 

“ Oh no, sir ! he never can ; he never can, 
indeed. When he was only that high, sir, 
he could not steal even an apple when some 
wicked boys tried to mislead him.” 

“ Ah !” replied the Counselor, shaking his 
white head gravely; “then I greatly fear 
that his case is quite incurable. I have 
known such cases; violent prejudice, bred 
entirely of education, and anti - economical 
to the last degree. And when it is so, it is 
desperate ; no man, after imbibing ideas of 
that sort, can in any way be useful.” 

“Oh yes, sir, John is very useful. He can 
do as much work as three other men ; and 
you should see him load a sled, sir.” 

“ I was speaking, madam, of higher use- 
fulness — power of the brain and heart. The 
main thing for us upon earth is to take a 
large view of things. But while we talk 
of the heart, what is my niece Lorna doing, 
that she does not come and thank me for 
my perhaps too prompt concession to her 
youthful fancies? Ah! if I had wanted 
thanks, I should have been more stubborn.” 

Lorna, being challenged thus, came up and 
looked at her uncle, with her noble eyes fixed 
full upon his, which beneath his white eye- 
brows glistened like dormer-windows piled 
with snow. 

“ For what am I to thank you, uncle ?” 

“ My dear niece, I have told you. For re- 
moving the heaviest obstacle, which to a 


mind so well regulated could possibly have 
existed, between your dutiful self' and the 
object of your affections.” 

“ Well, uncle, I should be very grateful if 
I thought that you did so from love of me, 
or if I did not know that you have something 
yet concealed from me.” 

“And my consent,” said the Counselor, 
“ is the more meritorious, the more liberal, 
frank, and candid, in the face of an exist- 
ing fact, and a very clearly established one, 
which might have appeared to weaker minds 
in the light of an impediment; but to my 
loftier view of matrimony seems quite a rec- 
ommendation.” 

“What fact do you mean, sir? Is it one 
that I ought to know ?” 

“In my opinion it is, good niece. It 
forms, to my mind, so fine a basis for the in- 
variable harmony of the matrimonial state. 
To be brief — as I always endeavor to be, 
without becoming obscure — you two young 
people (ah, what a gift is youth! one can 
never be too thankful for it) will have the 
rare advantage of commencing married life 
with a subject of common interest to dis- 
cuss, whenever you weary of — well, say of 
one another ; if you can now, by any means, 
conceive such a possibility. And perfect 
justice meted out : mutual good-will result- 
ing, from the sense of reciprocity. 

“I do not understand you, sir. Why can 
you not say what you mean at once ?” 

“ My dear child, I prolong your suspense. 
Curiosity is the most powerful of all femi- 
nine instincts, and therefore the most de- 
lightful, when not prematurely satisfied. 
However, if you must have my strong reali- 
ties, here they are. Your father slew dear 
John’s father, and dear John’s father slew 
yours.” 

Having said thus much, the Counselor 
leaned back upon his chair, and shaded his 
calm white-bearded eyes from the rays of 
our tallow- candles. He was a man who 
liked to look, rather than to be looked at. 
But Lorna came to me for aid, and I went up 
to Lorna, and mother looked at both of us. 

Then feeling that I must speak first (as no 
one would begin it), I took my darling round 
the waist, and led her up to the Counselor, 
while she tried to bear it bravely, yet must 
lean on me, or did. 

“Now, Sir Counselor Doone,” I said, with 
Lorna squeezing both my hands, I never yet 
knew how (considering that she was walk- 
ing all the time, or something like it), “ you 
know right well, Sir Counselor, that Sir En- 
sor Doone gave approval.” I can 1101 tell 
what made me think of this ; but so it came 
upon me. 

“Approval to what, good rustic John? 
To the slaughter so reciprocal ?” 

“No, sir, not to that, even if it ever hap- 
pened, which I do not believe. But to the 
love betwixt me and Lorna; which your 


LORNA DOONE. 


185 


story shall not break, without more evidence 
than your word. And even so, shall never 
break, if Lorna thinks as I do.” 

The maiden gave me a little touch, as 
much as to say, “ You are right, darliug ; 
r give it to him again like that.” However, I 
held my peace, well knowiug that too mauy 
words do mischief. 

Then mother looked at me with wonder, 
being herself too amazed to speak ; and the 
Counselor looked, with great wrath in his 
eyes, which he tried to keep from burning. 

“ How say you, then, John Ridd,” he cried, 
stretching out one hand like Elijah : “ is this 
a thing of the sort you love ? Is this what 
you are used to ?” 

“ So please your worship,” I answered ; 
“no kind of violence can surprise us, since 
first came Doones upon Exmoor. Up to that 
time none heard of harm, except of taking a 
purse, maybe, or cutting a strange sheep’s 
throat. And the poor folk who did this were 
hanged, with some benefit of clergy. But 
ever since the Doones came first, we are used 
to any thing.” 

“ Thou varlet,” cried the Counselor, with 
the color of his eyes quite changed with the 
sparkles of his fury, “ is this the way we are 
to deal with such a low-bred clod as thou? 
To question the doings of our people and to 
talk of clergy ! What ! dream you not that 
we could have clergy, and of the right sort 
too, if we only cared to have them ? Tush ! 
Am I to spend my time arguing with a plow- 
tail Bob ?” 

“ If your worship will hearken to me,” I 
answered very modestly, not wishing to 
speak harshly, with Lorna looking up at me, 
“ there are many things that might be said, 
without any kind of argument, which I 
would never wish to try with one of your 
worship’s learning. And in the first place 
it seems to me that if our fathers hated one 
another bitterly, yet neither won the victory, 
only mutual discomfiture, surely that is but 
a reason why we should be wiser than they, 
and make it up in this generation by good- 
will and loving — ” 

“Oh, John, you wiser than your father!” 
mother broke upon me here : “ not but what 
you might be as wise when you come to be 
old enough.” 

“ Young people of the present age,” said 
the Counselor, severely, “ have no right feel- 
ing of any sort upon the simplest matter. 
Lorna Doone, stand forth from contact with 
that heir of parricide, and state, in your own 
mellifluous voice, whether you regard this 
slaughter as a pleasant trifle.” 

“ You know, without auy words of mine,” 
she answered very softly, yet not withdraw- 
ing from my hand, “ that although I have 
been seasoned well to every kind of outrage 
among my gentle relatives, I have not yet so 
purely lost all sense of right and wrong as 
to receive what you have said as lightly as 


you declared it. You think it a happy ba- 
sis for our future concord. I do not quite 
think that, my uncle ; neither do I quite be- 
lieve that a word of it is true. In our hap- 
py valley, nine -tenths of what is said is 
false; and you were always wont to argue 
that true and false are but a blind turned 
upon a pivot. Without any failure of re- 
spect for your character, good uncle, I de- 
cline politely to believe a word of what you 
have told me. And even if it were proved 
to me, all I can say is this, if my John will 
have me, I am his forever.” 

This long speech was too much for her ; 
she had overrated her strength about it, and 
the sustenance of irony. So at last she fell 
into my arms, which had long been waiting 
for her; and there she lay with no other 
sound except a gurgling in her throat. 

“ You old villain !” cried my mother, shak- 
ing her fist at the Counselor, while I could 
do nothing else but hold and bend across my 
darling, and whisper to deaf ears, “ What is 
the good of the quality, if this is all that 
comes of it? Out of the way ! You know 
the words that make the deadly mischief, 
but not the ways that heal them. Give me 
that bottle, if hands you have ; what is the 
use of Counselors ?” 

I saw that dear mother was carried away ; 
and indeed I myself was something like it, 
with the pale face upon my bosom, and the 
heaving of the heart, and the heat and cold 
all through me, as my darling breathed or 
lay. Meanwhile the Counselor stood back, 
and seemed a little sorry ; although of course 
it was not in his power to be at all ashamed 
of himself. 

“ My sweet love, my darling child,” our 
mother went on to Lorna, in a way that I 
shall never forget, though I live to be a 
huudred ; “ pretty pet, not a word of it is 
true, upon that old liar’s oath ; and if every 
word were true, poor chick, you should have 
our John all the more for it. You and John 
were made by God, and meaut for one an- 
other, whatever falls between you. Little 
lamb, look up and speak : here is your own 
John and I ; and the devil take the Coun- 
selor.” 

I was amazed at mother’s words, being so 
unlike her, while I loved her all the more 
because she forgot herself so. In another 
moment in ran Annie, ay, and Lizzie also, 
knowing by some mystic sense (which I 
have often noticed, but never could explain) 
that something was astir belonging to the 
world of women, yet foreign to the eyes of 
men. And now the Counselor, beiug well- 
born, although such a heartless miscreant, 
beckoned to me to come away; which I, be- 
ing smothered with women, was only too 
glad to do as soon as my own love would 
let go of me. 

“ That is the worst of them,” said the old 
man, when I had led him into our kitchen, 


186 


LORNA DOONE. 


with an apology at every step, and given 
him hot schnapps and water, and a cigarro 
of brave Tom Faggus ; “ yon never can say 
much, sir, in the way of reasoning (however 
gently meant and put), but what these 
women will fly out. It is wiser to put a 
wild bird in a cage, and expect him to sit 
and look at you, and chirp without a feath- 
er rumpled, than it is to expect a woman to 
answer reason reasonably.” Saying this, he 
looked at his puff of smoke as if it coutai ned 
more reason. 

“ I am sure I do not know, sir,” I answer- 
ed according to a phrase which has always 
been my favorite, on account of its general 
truth : moreover, he was now our guest, and 
had right to be treated accordingly : “ I am, 
as you see, not acquainted with the ways of 
women, except my mother and sisters.” 

“ Except uot even them, my son,” said the 
’Counselor, now having finished his glass, 
without much consultation about it; “if 
you once understand your mother and sisters 
— why, you understand the lot of them.” 

He made a twist in his cloud of smoke, 
and dashed his finger through it, so that I 
could not follow his meaning, and in man- 
ners liked not to press him. 

“Now of this business, John,” he said, 
u,fter getting to the bottom of the second 
glass, and having a trifle or so to eat, and 
praising our chimney-corner; “taking you 
on the whole, you know, you are wonder- 
fully good people ; and instead of giving me 
up to the soldiers, as you might have done, 
you are doing your best to make me drunk.” 

“ Not at all, sir,” I answered ; “ not at all, 
your worship. Let me mix you another 
glass. We rarely have a great gentleman 
by the side of our embers and oven. I only 
beg your pardon, sir, that my sister Annie 
(who knows where to find all the good pans 
and the lard) could not wait upon you this 
evening; and I fear they have done it with 
dripping instead, and in a pan with the bot- 
tom burned. But old Betty quite loses her 
head sometimes, by dint of overscolding.” 

“My son,” replied the Counselor, stand- 
ing across the front of the fire, to prove his 
strict sobriety, “ I meant to come down upon 
you to-night ; but you have turned the ta- 
bles upon me. Not through any skill on 
your part, nor through any paltry weakness 
as to love (and all that stuff, which boys 
and girls spin tops at, or knock dolls’ noses 
together), but through your simple way of 
taking me as a man to be believed, combined 
with the comfort of this place, and the choice 
tobacco and cordials. I have not enjoyed 
an evening so much, God bless me if I know 
when !” 

“ Your worship,” said I, “makes me more 
proud than I well know what to do with. 
Of all the things that please and lead us 
into happy sleep at night, the first and chief- 
.est is to think that we have pleased a visitor.” 


“Then, John, thou hast deserved good 
sleep ; for I am not pleased easily. But al- 
though our family is uot so high now as it 
hath been, I have enough of the gentleman 
left to be pleased when good people try me. 
My father, Sir Ensor, was better than I in 
this great element of birth, and my son Car- 
ver is far worse. JEtas parentum, what is it, 
my boy ? I hear that you have been at a 
grammar-school.” 

“ So I have, your worship, and at a very 
good one ; but I only got far enough to make 
more tail than head of Latin.” 

“ Let that pass,” said the Counselor ; 
“John, thou art all the wiser.” And the old 
man shook his hoary locks, as if Latin had 
been his ruin. I looked at him sadly, and 
wondered whether it might have so ruined 
me, but for God’s mercy in stopping it. 


CHAPTER Lll. 

THE WAY TO MAKE THE CREAM RISE. 

That night the reverend Counselor, not 
being in such state of mind as ought to 
go alone, kindly took our best old bedstead, 
carved in panels, well enough, with the wom- 
an of Samaria. I set him up both straight 
and heavy, so that he need but close both 
eyes and keep his mouth just open ; and in 
the morning he was thankful for all that he 
could remember. 

I, for my part, scarcely knew whether he 
really had begun to feel good-will toward 
us, and to see that nothing else could be of 
any use to him, or whether he was merely 
acting so as to deceive us. And it had 
struck me several times that he had made 
a great deal more of the spirit he had taken 
than the quantity would warrant, with a 
man so wise and solid. Neither did I quite 
understand a little story which Lorna told 
me, how that in the night awaking, she had 
heard, or seemed to hear, a sound of feeling 
in her room, as if there had been some one 
groping carefully among the things within 
her drawers or wardrobe closet. But the 
noise had ceased at once, she said, when she 
sat up in bed and listened; and knowing 
how many mice we had, she took courage 
and fell asleep again. 

After breakfast the Counselor (who look- 
ed no whit the worse for schnapps, but even 
more grave and venerable) followed our An- 
nie into the dairy to see how we managed 
the clotted cream, of which he had eaten a 
basinful. And thereupon they talked a lit- 
tle ; and Annie thought him a fine old gen- 
tleman, and a very just one ; for he had no- 
bly condemned the people who spoke against 
Tom Faggus. 

“Your honor must plainly understand,” 
said Annie, being now alone with him, and 
spreading out her light quick hands over the 


LORNA DOONE. 


187 


pans like butterflies, “ that they are brought 
in here to cool, after being set in the basin- 
holes, with the woocl-ash under them, which 
I showed you in the back kitchen. And 
they must have very little heat, not enough 
to simmer even ; only just to make the bub- 
bles rise, and the scum upon the top set 
thick: and after that it clots as firm — oh, 
as firm as my two hands be.” 

“ Have you ever heard,” asked the Coun- 
selor, who enjoyed this talk with Annie, 
“ that if you pass across the top, without 
breaking the surface, a string of beads, or 
polished glass, or any thing of that kind, 
the cream will set three times as solid, and 
in thrice the quantity ?” 

“ No, sir ; I have never heard that,” said 
Annie, staring with all her simple eyes ; 
“ what a thing it is to read books, and grow 
learned! But it is very easy to try it; I 
will get my coral necklace ; it will not be 
witchcraft, will it, sir ?” 

“ Certainly not,” the old man replied ; “ I 
will make the experiment myself; and you 
may trust me not to be hurt, my dear. But 
coral will not do, my child, neither will any 
thing colored. The beads must be of plain 
common glass ; but the brighter they are 
the better.” 

“Then I know the very thing,” cried An- 
nie ; “ as bright as bright can be, and with- 
out any color in it, except in the sun or can- 
dle-light. Dearest Lorna has the very thing 
— a necklace of some old glass-beads, or I 
think they called them jewels ; she will be 
too glad to lend it to us. I will go- for it in 
a moment.” 

“ My dear, it can not be half so bright as 
your own pretty eyes. But remember one 
thing, Annie, you must not say what it is 
for; or even that I am going to use it, or 
any thing at all about it ; else the charm 
will be broken. "Bring it here without a 
word, if you kuow where she keeps it.” 

“To be sure I do,” she answered; “John 
used to keep it for her. But she took it 
away from him last week, and she wore it 
when — I mean when somebody was here; 
and he said it was very valuable, and spoke 
with great learning about it, and called it 
by some particular name, which I forget at 
this moment. But valuable, or not, we can 
not hurt it, can we, sir, by passing it over 
the cream-pan ?” 

“Hurt it!” cried the Counselor: “nay, 
we shall do it good, my dear. It will help 
to raise the cream : and you may take my 
word for it, young maiden, none can do good 
in this world without in turn receiving it.” 
Pronouncing this great sentiment, he looked 
so grand and benevolent, that Annie (as she 
said afterward) could scarce forbear from 
kissing him, yet feared to take the liberty. 
Therefore, she only ran away to fetch my 
Lorna’s necklace. 

Now as luck would have it — whether good 


luck or otherwise, you must not judge too 
hastily — my darling had taken it into her 
head, only a day or two before, that I was 
far too valuable to be trusted with her 
necklace. Now that she had some idea of 
its price and quality, she had begun to fear 
that some one, perhaps even Squire Faggus 
(in whom her faith was illiberal) might form 
designs against my health, to win the baw- 
ble from me. So, with many pretty coax- 
ings, she had led me to give it up ; which, 
except for her own sake, I was glad enough 
to do, misliking a charge of such importance. 

Therefore Annie found it sparkliug in the 
little secret hole near the head of Lorna’s 
bed, which she herself had recommended for 
its safer custody ; and without a word to 
any one she brought it down, and danced it 
in the air before the Counselor, for him to 
admire its lustre. 

“ Oh, that old thing !” said the gentleman, 
in a tone of some contempt ; “ I remember 
that old thing well enough. However, for 
want of a better, no doubt it will answer 
our purpose. Three times three, I pass it 
over. Crinkleum, crankum, grass and clo- 
ver! What are you feared of, you silly 
child?” 

“ Good sir, it is perfect witchcraft ! I am 
sure of that, because it rhymes. Oh, what 
would mother say to me ? Shall I ever go to 
heaven again ? Oh, I see the cream already !” 

“ To be sure you do ; but you must not 
look, or the whole charm will be broken, 
and the devil will fly away with the pan, 
and drown every cow you have got in it.” 

“ Oh, sir, it is too horrible. How could 
you lead me to such a sin? Away with 
thee, witch of Endor !” 

For the door began to creak, and a broom 
appeared suddenly in the opening, with our 
Betty, no doubt, behind it. But Annie, in the 
greatest terror, slammed the door, and bolt- 
ed it, and then turned again to the Coun- 
selor ; yet, looking at his face, had not the 
courage to reproach him. For his eyes roll- 
ed like two blazing barrels, and his white 
shagged brows were knit across them, and 
his forehead scowled in black furrows, so 
that Annie said that if she ever saw the 
devil, she saw him then, and no mistake. 
Whether the old man wished to scare her, or 
whether he was trying not to laugh, is more 
than I can tell you. 

“ Now,” he said, in a deep, stern whisper, 
“ not a word of this to living soul ; neither 
must you, nor any other, enter this place 
for three hours at least. By that time the 
charm will have done its work : the pan will 
be cream to the bottom ; and yon will bless 
me for a secret which will make your for- 
tune. Put the bawble under this pannikin, 
which none must lift for a day and a night. 
Have no fear, my simple wench ; not a breath 
of harm shall come to you, if you obey my 
orders.” 


188 


LOKNA DOQNE. 


“ Oh that I will, sir, that I will ; if you 
only tell ine what to do.” 

“ Go to your room, without so much as a 
single word to any one. Bolt yourself in, 
and for three hours now ■ read the Lord’s 
Prayer backward.” 

Poor Annie was only too glad to escape 
upon these conditions ; and the Counselor 
kissed her upon the forehead, and told her 
not to make her eyes red, because they were 
much too sweet and pretty. She dropped 
them at this, with a sob and a courtesy, and 
ran away to her bedroom : but as for read- 
ing the Lord’s Prayer backward, that was 
much beyond her; and she had not done 
three words quite right before the three 
hours expired. 

Meauwhile the Counselor was gone. He 
bade our mother adieu with so much dignity 
of bearing, and such warmth of gratitude, 
and the high-bred courtesy of the old school 
(now fast disappearing), that when he was 
gone, dear mother fell back on the chair 
which he had used last night, as if it would 
teach her the graces. And for more than 
an hour she made believe not to kuow what 
there was for dinner. 

“ Oh the wickedness of the world ! Oh 
the lies that are told of people — or, rather, I 
mean the falsehoods — because a man is bet- 
ter born, and has better manners! Why, 
Lorna, how is it that you never speak about 
your charming uncle ? Did you notice, Liz- 
zie, how his silver hair was waving upon his 
velvet collar, and how white his hands were, 
and every nail like an acorn ; only pink like 
shell-fish, or at least like shells ? And the 
way he bowed, and dropped his eyes, from 
his pure respect for me ! And then, that he 
would not even speak, on account of his 
emotion, but pressed my hand in silence! 
Oh, Lizzie, you have read me beautiful 
things about Sir Gallyhead and the rest, 
but nothing to equal Sir Counselor.” 

“ You had better marry him, madam,” said 
I, coming in very sternly ; though I knew I 
ought not to say it ; “ he can repay your 
adoration. He has stolen a hundred thou- 
sand pounds.” 

“ John,” cried my mother, “ yon are mad !” 
And yet she turned as pale as death ; for 
women are so quick at turning; and she 
inkled what it was. 

“ Of course I am, mother ; mad about the 
marvels of Sir Galahad. He has gone off 
with my Lorna’s necklace. Fifty farms like 
ours can never make it good to Lorna.” 

Hereupon ensued grim silence. Mother 
looked at Lizzie’s face, for she could not 
look at me; and Lizzie looked at me, to 
know ; and as for me, I could have stamped 
almost on the heart of any one. It was not 
the value of the necklace — I am not so low 
a hound as that — nor was it even the d — d 
folly shown by every one of us — it was the 
thought of Lorna’s sorrow for her ancient 


plaything ; and even more, my fury at the 
breach of hospitality. 

But Lorna came up to me softly, as a 
woman should always come, and she laid 
one hand upon my shoulder, and she only 
looked at me. She even seemed to fear to 
look, and dropped her eyes, and sighed at 
me. Without a word, I knew by that how 
I must have looked like Satan ; and the evil 
spirit left my heart, when she had made me 
think of it. 

“ Darling John, did you want me to think 
that you cared for my money more than for 
me ?” 

I led her away from the rest of them, be- 
ing desirous of explaining things, when I 
saw the depth of her nature opened, like an 
everlasting well, to me. But she would not 
let me say a word, or do any thing by our- 
selves, as it were ; she said, “ Your duty is 
to your mother ; this blow is on her, and not 
on me.” 

I saw that she was right ; though how 
she knew it is beyond me : and I asked her 
just to go in front, and bring my mother 
round a little. For I must let my passion 
pass ; it may drop its weapons quickly, but 
it can not come and go before a man has 
time to think. 

Then Lorna went up to my mother, who 
was still in the chair of elegance, and she 
took her by both hands, and said, 

“Dearest mother, I shall fret so if I see 
you fretting. And to fret will kill me, 
mother. They have always told me so.” 

Poor -mother bent on Lorna’s shoulder, 
without thought of attitude, and laid her 
cheek on Lorna’s breast, and sobbed till Liz- 
zie was jealous, and came with two pocket- 
handkerchiefs. As for me, my heart was 
lighter (if they would only dry their eyes, 
and come round by dinner-time) than it had 
been since the day on which Tom Faggus 
discovered the value of that blessed and 
cursed necklace. None could say that I 
wanted Lorna for her money now. And 
perhaps the Dooues would let me have her, 
now that her property was gone. 

But who shall tell of Annie’s grief? The 
poor little thing would have staked her life 
upon finding the trinket, in all its beauty, 
lying under the pannikin. She proudly chal- 
lenged me to lift it — which I had done long 
ere that, of course — if only I would take the 
risk of the spell for my incredulity. I told 
her not to talk of spells until she could spell 
a word backward, and then to look into the 
pan where the charmed cream should be. 
She would not acknowledge that the cream 
was the same as all the rest was : and indeed 
it was not quite the same, for the points of 
poor Lorna’s diamonds had made a few star- 
rays across the rich firm crust of yellow. 

But when we raised the pannikin, and 
there was nothing under it, poor Annie fell 
against the wall, which had been whitened 


LORNA DOONE. 


lately, and her face put all the white to 
scorn. My love, who was as fond of her as 
if she had known her for fifty years, here- 
upon ran up and caught her, and abused all 
diamonds. I will dwell no more upon An- 
nie’s grief, because we felt it all so much. 
But I could not help telling her, if she want- 
ed a witch, to seek good Mother Melldrum, a 
legitimate performer. 

That same night Master Jeremy Stickles 
(of w r hose absence the Counselor must have 
known) came back, with all equipment ready 
for the grand attack. Now the Doones knew, 
quite as w'ell as we did, that this attack was 
threatening ; and that but for the wonderful 
weather it would have been made long ago. 
Therefore we, or at least our people (for I 
was doubtful about going), were sure to 
meet with a good resistance, and due prep- 
aration. 

It was very strange to hear and see, and 
quite impossible to account fcr, that now 
some hundreds of country people (who fear- 
ed to whisper so much as a word against the 
Doones a year ago, and would sooner have 
thought of attacking a church in service-time 
than Glen Doone) sharpened their old cut- 
lasses, and laid pitchforks on the grindstone, 
and bragged at every village cross, as if 
each would kill ten Doones himself, neither 
care to wipe his hands afterward. And this 
fierce bravery and tall contempt had been 
growing ever since the news of the attack 
upon our premises had taken good people by 
surprise ; at least as concerned the issue. 

Jeremy Stickles laughed heartily about 
Annie’s new manner of charming the cream ; 
but he looked very grave at the loss of the 
jewels, so soon as he knew their value. 

“My son,” he exclaimed, “'this is very 
heavy. It will go ill with all of you to 
make good this loss, as I fear that you will 
have to do.” 

“ What !” cried I, with my blood running 
•cold. “We make good the loss, Master 
Stickles! Every farthing we have in the 
world, and the labor of our lives to boot, 
will never make good the tenth of it.” 

“It would cut me to the heart,” he an- 
swered, laying his hand on mine, “ to hear 
of such a deadly blow to you and your good 
mother. And this farm ; how long, John, 
has it been in your family ?” 

“ For at least six hundred years,” I said, 
with a foolish pride that was only too like 
to end in groans ; “ and some people say, by 
a royal grant, in the time of the great King 
Alfred. At any rate, a Ridd was with him 
throughout all his hiding-time. We have 
always held by the King and crown ; surely 
none will turn us out, unless we are guilty 
of treason ?” 

“ My son,” replied Jeremy, very gently, so 
that I could love him for it, “not a word to 
your good mother of this unlucky matter. 
Keep it to yourself, my boy, and try to think 


189 

but little of it. After all, I may be wrong ; 
at any rate, least said best mended.” 

“ But Jeremy, dear Jeremy, how can I bear 
to leave it so ? Do you suppose that I can 
sleep, and eat my food, and go about, and 
look at other people, as if nothing at all had 
happened ? And all the time have it on my 
mind that not an acre of all the land, nor 
even our old sheep-dog, belongs to us, of 
right, at all ! It is more than I can do, Jer- 
emy. Let me talk, and know the worst 
of it.” 

“Very well,” replied Master Stickles, see- 
ing that both the doors were closed; “I 
thought that nothing could move you, John, 
or I never would have told you. Likely 
enough I am quite wrong; and God send 
that I be so. But what I guessed at some 
time back seems more than a guess, now 
that you have told me about these wondrous 
jewels. Now will you keep, as close as death, 
every word I tell you ?” 

“By the honor of a man, I will. Until 
you yourself release me.” 

“That is quite enough, John. From you 
I want no oath ; which, according to my ex- 
perience, tempts a bad man to lie the more, 
by making it more important. I know you 
now too well to swear you, though I have 
the power. Now, my lad, what I have to 
say will scare your mind in one way, and 
ease it in another. I think that you have 
been hard pressed — I can read you like a 
book, John — by something which that old 
villain said, before he stole the necklace. 
You have tried not to dwell upon it; you 
have even tried to make light of it for the 
sake of the women : but on the whole it has 
grieved you more than even this dastard 
robbery.” 

“ It would have done so, Jeremy Stickles, 
if I could once have believed it. And even 
without much belief, it is so against our 
manners, that it makes me miserable. Only 
think of loving Lorna, only think of kissing 
her ; and then remembering that her father 
had destroyed the life of mine !” 

“ Only think,” said Master Stickles, imi- 
tating my very voice, “ of Lorna loving you, 
John, of Lorna kissing you, John; and all 
the while saying to herself, ‘This man’s fa- 
ther murdered mine.’ Now look at it in 
Lorna’s way, as well as in your own way. 
How one-sided all men are !” 

“ I may look at it in fifty ways, and yet 
no good will come of it. Jeremy, I confess 
to you that I tried to make the best of it ; 
partly to baffle the Counselor, and partly be- 
cause my darling needed my help, and bore 
it so, and behaved to me so nobly. But to 
you in secret I am not ashamed to say that 
a woman may look over this easier than a 
man may.” 

“Because her nature is larger, my son, 
when she truly loves, although her mind be 
smaller. Now, if I can ease you from this 


190 


LORNA DOONE. 


secret burden, will you bear, with strength 
and courage, the other which I plant on 
you ?” 

“ 1 will do ray best,” said I. 

“ No man can do more,” said he ; and so 
began his story. 

* 

CHAPTER LIH. 

JEREMY FINDS OUT SOMETHING. 

“ You know, my son,” said Jeremy Stick- 
les, with a good pull at his pipe, because he 
was going to talk so much, and putting his 
legs well along in the settle ; “ it has been 
my duty, for a wearier time than I care to 
think of (and which would have been un- 
bearable, except for your great kindness), 
to search this neighborhood narrowly, and 
learn every thing about every body. Now 
the neighborhood itself is queer, and people 
have different ways of thinking from what 
we are used to in London. For instance 
now, among your folk, when any piece of 
news is told, or any man’s conduct spoken 
of, the very first question that arises in your 
minds is this: ‘Was this action kind and 
good V Long after that, you say to your- 
selves, ‘Does the law enjoin or forbid this 
thing V Now here is your fundamental er- 
ror ; for among all truly civilized people the 
foremost of all questions is, ‘ How stands the 
law herein V And if the law approve, no 
need for any further questioning. That this 
is so, you may take my word ; for I know 
the law pretty thoroughly. 

“Very well; I need not say any more 
about that, for I have shown that you are 
all quite wrong. I only speak of this sav- 
age tendency, because it explains so many 
things which have puzzled me among you, 
and most of all your kindness to men whom 
you never saw before ; which is an utterly 
illegal thing. It also explains your tolera- 
tion of these outlaw Doones so long. If your 
views of law had been correct, and law an 
element of your lives, these robbers could 
never have been indulged for so many years 
among you, but you must have abated the 
nuisance.” 

“ Now, Stickles,” I cried, “ this is too bad !” 
he was delivering himself so grandly. “ Why 
you yourself have been among us, as the bal- 
ance, and sceptre, and sword of law, for nigh 
upon a twelvemonth ; and have you abated 
the nuisance, or even cared to do it, until 
they began to shoot at you ?” 

“ My son,” he replied, “ your argument is 
quite beside the purpose, and only tends to 
prove more clearly that which I have said 
of you. However, if you wish to hear my 
story, no more interruptions. I may not 
have a chance to tell you, perhaps for weeks, 
or I know not when, if once those yellows 
and reds arrive, and be blessed to them, the 


lubbers ! Well, it may be six months ago,, 
or it may be seven, at any rate a good while 
before that cursed frost began, the mere 
name of which sends a shiver down every 
bone of my body, when I was riding one af- 
ternoon from Dulverton to Watchett — ” 

“ Dulverton to Watchett ?” I cried. “Now 
what does that remind me of? I am sure, 
I remember something — ” 

“ Remember this, John, if any thing — that 
another word from thee, and thou hast no 
more of mine. Well, I was a little weary 
perhaps, having been plagued at Dulverton 
with the grossness of the people. For they 
would tell me nothing at all about their fel- 
low-townsman, your worthy Uncle Hucka- 
back, except that he was a God-fearing man, 
and they only wished I was like him. I 
blessed myself for a stupid fool, in thinking 
to have pumped them ; for by this time I 
might have known that, through your West- 
ern homeliness, every man in his own coun- 
try is something more than a prophet. And 
I felt, of course, that I had done more harm 
than good by questioning ; inasmuch as ev- 
ery soul in the place would run straightway 
and inform him that the King’s man from 
the other side of the forest had been sifting 
out his ways and works.” 

“Ah!” I cried, for I could not help it; 
“ you begin to understand at last that we 
are not quite such a set of oafs as you at 
first believed us.” 

“ I was riding on from Dulverton,” he re- 
sumed with great severity, yet threatening 
me no more, which checked me more than 
fifty threats : “ and it was late in the after- 
noon, and I was growing weary. * The road 
(if road it could be called) turned suddenly 
down from the higher land to the very brink 
of the sea; and rounding a little jut of cliff, 
I met the roar of the breakers. My horse 
was scared, and leaped aside ; for a norther- 
ly wind was piping, and driving hunks of 
foam across, as children scatter snow-balls. 
But he only sank to his fetlocks in the dry 
sand, piled with pop-weed ; and I tried to 
make him face the waves ; and then I looked 
about me. 

“ Watchett town was not to be seen, on 
account of a little foreland, a mile or more 
upon my course, and standing to the right 
of me. There was room enough below the 
cliffs (which are nothing there to yours, 
John) for horse and man to get along, al- 
though the tide was running high with a 
northerly gale to back it. But close at hand 
and in the corner, drawn above the yellow 
sands and long eyebrows of wrack- weed, as 
snug a little house blinked on me as ever I 
saw, or wished to see. 

“ You know that I am not luxurious, nei- 
ther in any way given to the common lusts 
of the flesh, John. My father never allowed 
his hair to grow a fourth part of an inch in 
length, and he was a thoroughly godly man ; 


LORNA DOONE. 


19t 


and I try to follow in his footsteps, when- 
ever I think about it. Nevertheless, I do 
assure you that my view of that little house, 
and the way the lights were twinkling, so 
different from the cold and darkness of the 
rolling sea, moved the ancient Adam in me, 
if he could be found to move. I love not a 
house with too many windows : being out of 
house and doors some three-quarters of my 
time, when I get inside a house I like to feel 
the difference. Air and light are good for 
people who have any lack of them ; and if a 
man once talks about them, ’tis enough to 
prove his need of them. But, as you well 
know, John Ridd, the horse who has been at 
work all day, with the sunshine on his eyes, 
sleeps better in dark stable, and needs no 
moon to help him. 

“ Seeing, therefore, that this same inn had 
four windows, and no more, I thought to my- 
self how snug it was, and how beautifully I 
could sleep there. And so I made the old 
horse draw hand, which he was only too 
glad to do, and we clomb above the spring- 
tide mark, and over a little piece of turf, and 
struck the door of the hostelry. Some one 
came and peeped at me through the lattice 
overhead, which was full of bulls’ eyes ; and 
then the bolt was drawn back, and a woman 
met me very courteously. A dark and for- 
eign-looking woman, very hot of blood, I 
doubt, but not altogether a bad one. And 
she waited for me to be first to speak, which 
an Englishwoman would not have done. 

“ ‘ Can I rest here for the night ?” I ask- 
ed, with a lift of my hat to her ; for she was 
no provincial dame, who would stare at me 
for the courtesy ; ‘ my horse is weary from 
the sloughs, and myself but little better: 
besides that, we both are famished.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, sir, you can rest and welcome. 
But of food, I fear, there is but little, unless 
of the common order. Our fishers would 
have drawn the nets, but the waves were 
violent. However, we have — what you call 
it ? I never can remember, it is so hard to 
say — the flesh of the hog salted.’ 

“ ‘ Bacon !’ said I : ‘ what can be better ? 
And half a dozen eggs with it, and a quart 
of fresh-drawn ale. You make me rage with 
hunger, madam. Is it cruelty, or hospital- 
ity ?’ 

“‘Ah, good!’ she replied, with a merry 
smile, full of Southern sunshine ; ‘ you are 
not of the men round here : you can think, 
and you can laugh!’ 

“ ‘And most of all, I can eat, good madam. 
In that way I shall astonish you, even more 
than by my intellect.’ 

“ She laughed aloud, and swung her 
shoulders, as your natives can not do ; and 
then she called a little maid to lead my horse 
to stable. However, I preferred to see that 
matter done myself, and told her to send the 
little maid for the frying-pan and the egg- 
box. 


“ Whether it were my natural wit and 
elegance of manner, or whether it were my 
London freedom and knowledge of the world, 
or (which is perhaps the most probable, be- 
cause the least pleasing supposition) my 
ready and permanent appetite, aud appreci- 
ation of garlic — Heave you to decide, John : 
but perhaps all three combined to recom- 
mend me to the graces of my charming host- 
ess. When I say ‘ charming,’ I mean of 
course by manners and by intelligence, and 
most of all by cooking ; for as regards ex- 
ternal charms (most fleeting and fallacious), 
hers had ceased to cause distress for I can 
not say how many years. She said that it 
was the climate — for even upon that subject 
she requested my opinion — and I answered, 
‘ If there be a change, let madam blame the 
seasons.’ 

“ However, not to dwell too much upon our 
little pleasantries (for I always get on with 
these foreign women better than with your 
Molls and Pegs), I became, not inquisitive, 
but reasonably desirous to know by what 
strange hap or hazard a clever and a hand- 
some woman, as she must have been some 
day, a woman, moreover, with great con- 
tempt for the rustic minds around her, could 
have settled here in this lonely inn, with 
only the waves for company, and a boorish 
husband who slaved all day in turning a 
potter’s wheel at Watchett. And what was 
the meaning of the emblem set above her 
door-way — a very unattractive cat sitting in 
a ruined tree ? 

“ However, I had not very long to strain 
my curiosity ; for when she found out who 
I was, and how I held the King’s commis- 
sion, and might be called an officer, her de- 
sire to tell me all was more than equal to 
mine of hearing it. Many and many a day 
she had longed for some one both skillful 
and trustworthy, most of all for some one 
bearing warrant from a court of justice. 
But the magistrates of the neighborhood 
would have nothing to say to her, declaring 
that she was a crack-brained woman, and a 
wicked, and even a foreign one. 

“With many grimaces she assured me 
that never by her own free-will would she 
have lived so many years in that hateful 
country, where the sky for half the year 
was fog, and rain for nearly the other half. 
It was so the very night when first her evil 
fortune brought her there ; and so, no doubt, 
it would be long after it had killed her. 
But if I wished to know the reason of her 
being there, she would tell me in few words, 
which I will repeat as briefly. 

“By birth she was an Italian, from the 
mountains of Apulia, who had gone to Rome 
to seek her fortunes, after being badly treat- 
ed in some love-affair. Her Christian name 
was Benita ; as for her surname, that could 
make no difference to any one. Being a 
quick and active girl, and resolved to work 


192 


LORNA DOONE. 


down her troubles, she found employment in 
a large hotel ; and rising gradually, began to 
send money to her parents. And here she 
might have thriven well, and married well 
under sunny skies, and been a happy wom- 
an, hut that some black day sent thither a 
rich and noble English family eager to be- 
hold the Pope. It was not, however, their 
fervent longing for the Holy Father which 
had brought them to St. Peter’s roof, but 
rather their own bad luck in making their 
home too hot to hold them. For although 
in the main good Catholics, and pleasant re- 
ceivers of any thing, one of their number had 
given offense by the folly of trying to think 
for himself. Some bitter feud had been 
among them, Benita knew not how it was ; 
and the sister of the nobleman, who had 
died quite lately, was married to the rival 
claimant, whom they all detested. It was 
something about dividing land; Benita knew 
not what it was. 

“ But this Benita did know, that they were 
all great people, and rich, and very liberal ; 
so that when they offered to take her, to at- 
tend to the children, and to speak the lan- 
guage for them, and to comfort the lady, she 
was only too glad to go, little foreseeing the 
end of it. Moreover, she loved the children 
so, from their pretty ways and that, and the 
things they gave her, and the style of their 
dresses, that it would have brokeu her heart 
almost never to see the dears again. 

“And so, in a very evil hour, she accept- 
ed the service of the noble Englishman, and 
sent her father an old shoe filled to the 
tongue with money, and trusted herself to 
fortune. But even before she went she 
knew that it could not turn out well ; for 
the laurel leaf which she threw on the fire 
would not crackle even once, and the horn 
of the goat came wrong in the twist, and 
the heel of her foot was shining. This made 
her sigh at the starting-time; and after that 
what could you hope for ? 

“ However, at first all things went well. 
My lord was as gay as gay could be, and 
never would come inside the carriage when 
a decent horse could be got to ride. He 
would gallop in front at a reckless pace, 
without a weapon of any kind, delighted 
with the pure blue air, and throwing his 
heart around him. Benita had never seen 
any man so admirable, and so childish. As 
innocent as an infant; and not only con- 
tented, but noisily happy with any thing. 
Only other people must share his joy; and 
the shadow of sorrow scattered it, though it 
were but the shade of poverty. 

“ Here Benita wept a little ; and I liked 
her none the less, and believed her ten times 
more, in virtue of a tear or two. 

“ And so they traveled through Northern 
Italy, and throughout the south of France, 
making their way anyhow; sometimes in 
-coaches, sometimes in carts, sometimes upon 


mule-back, sometimes even afoot and weary, 
but always as happy as could be. The chil- 
dren laughed, and grew, and throve (espe- 
cially the young lady, the elder of the two), 
and Benita began to think that omens must 
not be relied upon. But suddenly her faith 
in omens was confirmed forever. 

“ My lord, who was quite a young man 
still, and laughed at English arrogance, rode 
on in front of his wife and friends, to catch 
the first of a famous view on the French side 
of the Pyrenee hills. He kissed his hand to 
his wife, and said that he would save her the 
trouble of coming. For those two were so 
one in one, that they could make each other 
know whatever he or she had felt. And so 
my lord went round the corner, with a fine 
young horse leaping up at the steps. 

“ They waited for him long and long ; but 
he never came again ; and within a week 
his mangled body lay in a little chapel- 
yard ; and if the priests only said a quarter 
of the prayers they took the money for, God 
knows they can have no throats left, only a 
relaxation. 

“ My lady dwelt for six months more — it 
is a melancholy tale (what true tale is not 
so?) — scarcely able to believe that all her 
fright was not a dream. She would not 
wear a piece or shape of any mourning- 
clothes; she would not have a person cry, 
or any sorrow among us. She simply dis- 
believed the thing, and trusted God to right 
it. The Protestants, who have no faith, can 
not understand this feeling. Enough that 
so it was ; and so my lady went to heaven. 

“For when the snow came down in au- 
tumn on the roots of the Pyrenees, and the 
chapel-yard was white with it, many people 
told the lady that it was time for her to go. 
And the strongest plea of all was this, that 
now she bore another hope of repeating her 
husband’s virtues. So at the eud of Octo- 
ber, when wolves came down to the farm- 
lands, the little English family went home 
toward their England. 

“ They landed somewhere on the Devon- 
shire coast, ten or eleven years agone, and 
staid some days at Exeter, and set out thence 
in a hired coach, without any proper attend- 
ance, for Watchett, in the north of Somerset. 
For the lady owned a quiet mansion in the 
neighborhood of that town, and her one de- 
sire was to find refuge there, and to meet 
her lord, who was sure to come (she said) 
when he heard of his new infant. There- 
fore, with only two serving - men and two 
maids (including Benita), the party set forth 
from Exeter, and lay the first night at Bamp- 
ton. 

“On the following morn they started 
bravely, with earnest hope of arriving at 
their journey’s end by daylight. But the 
roads were soft^ and very deep, and the 
sloughs were out in places ; and the heavy 
coach broke down in the axle, and needed 


LORNA DOONE. 


193 


mending at Dulverton ; and so they lost 
three hours or more, and would have been 
wiser to sleep there. But her ladyship 
would not hear of it; she must be home 
that night, she said, and her husband would 
be waiting. How could she keep him wait- 
ing now, after such a long, long time ? 

“ Therefore, although it was afternoon, and 
the year now come to December, the horses 
were put to again, and the heavy coach went 
up the hill, with the lady and her two chil- 
dren, and Benita, sitting inside of it; the 
other maid, and two serving-men (each man 
with a great blunderbuss) mounted upon the 
outside, and upon the horses three Exeter 
postilions. Much had been said at Dulver- 
ton, and even back at Bampton, about some 
great freebooters, to whom all Exmoor owed 
suit and service, and paid them very punc- 
tually. Both the serving-men were scared, 
even over their ale, by this. But the lady 
only said , 1 Drive on ; I know a little of high- 
waymen : they never rob a lady.’ 

“ Through the fog aud through the muck 
the coach went on, as best it might ; some- 
times foundered in a slough, with half of the 
horses splashing it, and sometimes knuckled 
up on a bank, and straining across the mid- 
dle, while all the horses kicked at it. How- 
ever, they went on till dark as well as might 
be expected. But when they came, all thank- 
ing God, to the pitch and slope of the sea- 
bank leading on toward Watchett town, and 
where my horse had shied so, there the little 
boy jumped up and clapped his hands at the 
water ; and there (as Benita said) they met 
their fate, and could not fly it. 

“Although it was past the dusk of day, 
the silver light from the sea flowed in, and 
showed the clifls, and the gray sand -line, 
and the drifts of wreck, and wrack -weed. 
It showed them also a troop of horsemen 
waiting under a rock hard by, and ready to 
dash upon them. The postilions lashed to- 
ward the sea, and the horses strove in the 
depth of sand, and the serving-men cocked 
their blunderbusses, and cowered away be- 
hind them ; but the lady stood up in the 
carriage bravely, and neither screamed nor 
spoke, but hid her son behind her. Mean- 
while the drivers drove into the sea till the 
leading horses were swimming. 

“ But before the waves came into the 
coach, a score of fierce men were round it. 
They cursed the postilions for mad cowards, 
and cut the traces, and seized the wheel- 
horses, all wild with dismay in the wet and 
the dark. Then, while the carriage was 
heeling over, and well-nigh upset in the wa- 
ter, the lady exclaimed, 1 1 know that man ! 
He is our ancient enemy ;’ and Benita (fore- 
seeing that all their boxes would be turned 
insijle out, or carried away) snatched the 
most valuable of the jewels, a magnificent 
necklace of diamonds, and cast it over the 
little girl’s head, and buried it under her 
13 


traveling-cloak, hoping co to save it. Then 
a great wave, crested with foam, rolled in, 
aud the coach was thrown ou its side, and 
the sea rushed in at the top and the win- 
dows, upon shrieking, and clashing, and 
fainting away. 

“ What followed Benita knew not, as one 
might well suppose, herself being stunned 
by a blow on the head, besides being palsied 
with terror. 1 See, I have the mark now,’ 
she said, ‘ where the jamb of the door came 
down on me !’ But when she recovered her 
senses, she found herself lying upon the sand ; 
the robbers were out of sight, and one of the 
serving-men was bathing her forehead with 
sea-water. For this she rated him well, hav- 
ing taken already too much of that article ; 
aud then she arose and ran to her mistress, 
who was sitting upright on a little rock, 
with her dead boy’s face to her bosom, some- 
times gazing upon him, and sometimes quest- 
ing round for the other one. 

“Although there were torches and links 
around, and she looked at her child by the 
light of them, no one dared to approach the 
lady, or speak, or try to help her. Each man 
whispered his fellow to go, but each hung 
back himself, and muttered that it was too 
awful to meddle with. And there she would 
have sat all night, with the fine little fellow 
stone dead in her arms, and her tearless eyes 
dwelling upon him, and her heart but not 
her mind thinking, only that the Italian 
woman stole up softly to her side and whis- 
pered, ‘ It is the will of God.’ 

“ 1 So it always seems to be,’ were all the 
words the mother answered; and then she 
fell on Benita’s neck ; and the men were 
ashamed to be near her weeping ; and a 
sailor lay down and bellowed. Surely these 
men are the best. 

“Before the light of the morning came 
along the tide to Watchett, my lady had 
met her husband. They took her into the 
town that night, but not to her own castle ; 
and so the power of womanhood (which is 
itself maternity) came over swiftly upon her. 
The lady, whom all people loved (though at 
certain times particular), lies in Watchett 
little church-yard, with son and heir at her 
right hand, and a little babe, of sex un- 
known, sleeping on her bosom. 

“This is a miserable tale,” said Jere- 
my Stickles, brightly ; “ hand me over the 
schnapps, my boy. What fools we are to 
spoil our eyes for other people’s troubles! 
Enough of our own to keep them clean, al- 
though we all were chimney-sweeps. There 
is nothing like good hollands when a man 
becomes too sensitive. Restore the action 
of the glands ; that is my rule, after weep- 
ing. Let me make you another, John. You 
are quite low-spirited.” 

But although Master Jeremy carried on 
so (as became his manhood), and laughed at 
the sailor’s bellowing ; bless his heart, I 


194 


LORNA DOONE. 


know as well tliat tears were in liis brave 
keen eyes, as if I had dared to look for them, 
or to show mine own. 

“And what was the lady’s name?” I ask- 
ed ; “ and what became of the little girl ? 
and why did the woman stay there ?” 

“Well!” cried Jeremy Stickles, only too 
glad to be cheerful again : “ talk of a woman 
after that ! As we used to say at school — 
1 Who dragged whom, how many times, in 
what manner, round the wall of what V But 
to begin last first, my John (as becomes a 
woman), Benita staid in that blessed place 
because she could not get away from it. The 
Doones — if Doones indeed they were, about 
which you of course know best — took every 
stiver out of the carriage : wet or dry, they 
took it. And Benita could never get her 
wages ; for the whole affair is in Chancery, 
and they have appointed a receiver.” 

“Whew!” said I, knowing something of 
London, and sorry for Benita’s chance. 

“ So the poor thing was compelled to drop 
all thought of Apulia, and settle down on the 
brink of Exmoor, where you get all its evils, 
without the good to balance them. She 
married a man who turned a wheel for mak- 
ing the blue Watchett ware, partly because 
he could give her a house, and partly because 
he proved himself a good soul toward my 
lady. There they are, and have three chil- 
dren ; and there you may go and visit them.” 

“I understand all that, Jeremy, though 
you do tell things too quickly, and I would 
rather have John Fry’s style ; for he leaves 
one time for his words to melt. Now for my 
second question. What became of the little 
maid ?” 

“You great oaf!” cried Jeremy Stickles; 
“you are rather more likely to know, I 
should think, than any one else in all the 
kingdoms.” 

“ If I knew, I should not ask you. Jere- 
my Stickles, do try to be neither conceited 
nor thick-headed.” 

“ I will when you are neither,” answered 
Master Jeremy ; “ but you occupy all the 
room, John. No one else can get in with 
you there.” 

“ Very well, then, let me out. Take me 
down in both ways.” 

“ If ever you were taken down ; you must 
have your double joints ready now. And 
yet in other ways you will be as proud and 
set up as Lucifer. As certain sure as I stand 
here, that little maid is Lorna Doone.” 


CHAPTER LIT. 

MUTUAL DISCOMFITURE. 

It must not be supposed that I was alto- 
gether so thick-headed as Jeremy would 
have made me out. But it is part of my 
character that I like other people to think 


me slow, and to labor hard to enlighten me,, 
while all the time I can say to myself, “This 
man is shallower than I am ; it is pleasant 
to see his shoals come up while he is sound- 
ing mine so!” Not that I would so behave, 
God forbid, with any body (be it man or 
woman) who in simple heart approached me 
with no gauge of intellect. But when the 
upper hand is taken, upon the faith of one’s 
patience, by a man of even smaller wits (not 
that Jeremy was that, neither could he have 
lived to be thought so), why it naturally 
happens that we knuckle under, with an 
ounce of indignation. 

Jeremy’s tale would have moved me great- 
ly both with sorrow aud anger, even with- 
out my guess at first, and now my firm be- 
lief, that the child of those unlucky parents 
was indeed my Lorna. And as I thought of 
the lady’s troubles, and her faith in Provi- 
dence, and her cruel, childless death, and 
then imagined how my darling would be 
overcome to hear it, you may well believe 
that my quick replies to Jeremy Stickles’s 
banter were but as the flourish of a drum to 
cover the sounds of pain. 

For when he described the heavy coach 
and the persons in and upon it, and the 
breaking down at Dulverton, and the place 
of their destination, as well as the time and 
the weather, and the season of the year, my 
heart began to burn within me, and my mind 
replaced the pictures, first of the foreign 
lady’s maid by the pump caressing me, and 
then of the coach struggling up the hill, and 
the beautiful dame, and the fine little boy, 
with the white cockade in his hat ; but most 
of all the little girl, dark-haired and very 
lovely, and having even in those days the 
rich soft look of Lorna. 

But when he spoke of the necklace thrown 
over the head of the little maiden, and of her 
disappearance, before my eyes arose at once 
the flashing of the beacon fire, the lonely 
moors embrowned with light, the tramp of 
the outlaw cavalcade, and the helpless child 
head downward lying across the robber’s 
saddle-bow. Then I remembered my own 
mad shout of boyish indignation, and mar- 
veled at the strange long way by which the 
events of life come round. And while I 
thought of my own return, and childish at- 
tempt to hide myself from sorrow in the 
sawpit, and the agony of my mother’s tears, 
it did not fail to strike me as a thins: of 
omen that the self-same day should be, both 
to my darling and myself, the blackest and 
most miserable of all youthful days. 

The King’s Commissioner thought it wise, 
for some good reason of his own, to conceal 
from me for the present the name of the 
poor lady supposed to be Lorna’s mother; 
and knowing that I could easily now discov- 
er it without him, I let that question abide 
a while. Indeed I was half afraid to hear 
it, remembering that the nobler and tho 


LORNA DOONE. 


195 


wealthier she proved to he, the smaller was 
my chance of winning such a wife for plain 
John Ridel. Not that she would give me 
up — that I never dreamed of ; hut that oth- 
ers would interfere; or indeed I myself 
might find it only honest to relinquish her. 
That last thought was a dreadful hlow, and 
took my breath away from me. 

Jeremy Stickles was quite decided — and 
of course the discovery being his, he had a 
right to he so — that not a word of all these 
things must he imparted to Lorna herself, 
or even to my mother, or any one whatever. 
“ Keep it tight as wax, my lad,” he cried, 
with a wink of great expression ; “ this be- 
longs to me, mind ; and the credit, ay, and 
the premium, and the right of discount, are 
altogether mine. It would have taken you 
fifty years to put two and two together so 
as I did, like a clap of thunder. Ah ! God 
has given some men brains ; and others have 
good farms and money, and a certain skill 
in the lower beasts. Each must use his 
special talent. You work your farm, I work 
my brains. In the end, my lad, I shall beat 
you.” 

“Then, Jeremy, what a fool you must he, 
if you cudgel your* brains to make money of 
this, to open the barn-door to me, and show 
me all your threshing.” 

“ Not a whit, my son. Quite the opposite. 
Two men always thresh better than one. 
And here I have you bound to use your flail, 
one two, with mine, and yet in strictest 
honor bound not to bushel up till I tell you.” 

“ But,” said I, being much amused by a 
Londoner’s brave, yet uncertain, use of 
simplest rural metaphors, for he had wholly 
forgotten the winnowing, “ surely if I bush- 
el up, even when you tell me, I must take 
half-measure.” 

“ So you shall, my boy,” he answered, 
“if we can only cheat those confounded 
knaves of Equity. You shall take the beau- 
ty, my son, and the elegance, and the love, 
and all that — and, my boy, I will take the 
money.” 

This he said in a way so dry, and yet so 
richly unctuous, that being gifted somehow 
by God with a kind of sense of queerness, I 
fell back in my chair and laughed, though 
the underside of my laugh was tears. 

“ Now, Jeremy, how if I refuse to keep 
this half as tight as wax ? You bound me 
to no such partnership before you told the 
story ; and I am not sure, by any means, of 
your right to do so afterward.” 

“Tush!” he replied; “I know you too 
well to look for meanness in you. If from 
pure good-will, John Ridd, and anxiety to 
relieve you, I made no condition precedent, 
you are not the man to take advantage as 
a lawyer might. I do not even want your 
promise. As sure as I hold this glass, and 
drink your health and love in another drop 
(forced on me by pathetic words), so surely 


will you be bound to me until I do release 
you. Tush ! I know men well by this time: 
a mere look of trust from one is worth an- 
other’s ten thousand oaths.” 

“ Jeremy, you are right,” I answered ; “ at 
least as regards the issue. Although per- 
haps you were not right in leading me into 
a bargain like this, without my own con- 
sent or knowledge. But supposing that we 
should both be shot in this grand attack on 
the valley (for I mean to go with you now, 
heart and soul), is Lorna to remain untold 
of that which changes all her life ?” 

“ Both shot !” cried Jeremy Stickles : “ my 
goodness, boy, talk not like that! And 
those Doones are cursed good shots too. 
Nay, nay, the yellows shall go in front ; we 
attack on the Somerset side, I think. I from 
a hill will reconnoitre as behooves a general, 
you shall stick behind a tree, if we can only 
find one big enough to hide you. You and 
I to be shot, John Ridd, with all this inferior 
food for powder anxious to be devoured ?” 

I laughed, for I knew his cool hardihood 
and never-flinching courage ; and, sooth to 
say, no coward would have dared to talk 
like that. 

“ But when one comes to think of it,” he 
continued, smiling at himself; “some pro- 
vision should be made for even that un- 
pleasant chance. I will leave the whole in 
writing, with orders to be opened, etc., etc. 
— Now no more of that, my boy ; a cigarro 
after schnapps, and go to meet my yellow 
boys.” 

His “ yellow boys,” as he called the Som- 
ersetshire train-bands, were even now com- 
ing down the valley from the “London- 
road,” as every one since I went up to town, 
grandly entitled the lane to the moors. 
There was one good point about these men, 
that having no discipline at all, they made 
pretense to none whatever. Nay rather, 
they ridiculed the thing, as below men of 
any spirit. On the other hand, Master 
Stickles’s troopers looked down on these na- 
tive fellows from a height which I hope they 
may never tumble, for it would break the 
necks of all of them. 

Now these fine natives came along, sing- 
ing, for their very lives, a song the like of 
which set down here would oust my book 
from modest people, and make every body 
say, “This man never can have loved Lor- 
na.” Therefore, the less of that the better ; 
only I thought, “ What a difference from the 
goodly psalms of the ale-house !” 

Having finished their canticle, which con- 
tained more mirth than melody, they drew 
themselves up, in a sort of way supposed 
by them to be military, each man with heel 
and elbow struck into those of his neigh- 
bor, and saluted the King’s Commissioner. 
“ Why, where are your officers ?” asked Mas- 
ter Stickles ; “ how is it that you have no 
officers V’ Upon this there arose a general 


19C 


LORNA DOONE. 


grin, and a knowing look passed along their j 
faces, even up to the man by the gate-post. 
“Are you going to tell me, or not,” said Jere- 
my, “what is become of your officers ?” 

“ Plaise, zur,” said one little fellow at last, 
being nodded at by the rest to speak, in 
right of his known eloquence; “bus tould 
Harfizers, as a wor no nade of ’un, now 
King’s man hiszell wor coom, a puppose vor 
to command us laike.” 

“And do you mean to say, you villains,” 
cried Jeremy, scarce knowing whether to 
laugh or to swear, or what to do, “that 
your officers took their dismissal thus, and 
let you come on without them ?” 

“What could ’em do?” asked the little 
man, with reason certainly on his side : “ hus 
zent ’em about their business, and they was 
glad enough to goo.” 

“ Well !” said poor Jeremy, turning to me ; 
“a pretty state of things, John! Three- 
score cobblers, and farming-men, plasterers, 
tailors, and kettles-to-mend ; and not a man 
to keep order among them except my bless- 
ed self, John? And I trow there is not one 
among them could hit a barn door flying. 
The Doones will make riddles of all of us.” 

However, he had better hopes when the 
sons of Devon appeared, as they did in about 
an hour’s time ; fine fellows, and eager to 
prove themselves. These had not discarded 
their officers, but marched in good obedience 
to them, and were quite prepared to fight the 
men of Somerset (if need be) in addition to 
the Doones. And there was scarcely a man 
among them but could have trounced three 
of the yellow men, and would have done it 
gladly too, in honor of the red facings. 

“ Do you mean to suppose, Master Jeremy 
Stickles,” said I, looking on with amaze- 
ment, beholding also all our maidens at 
the up-stair windows wondering, “ that we, 
my mother a widow woman, and I a young 
man of small estate, can keep and support 
all these precious fellows, both yellow ones 
and red ones, until they have taken the 
Doone Glen ?” 

“ God forbid it, my son !” he replied, lay- 
ing a finger upon his lip : “ Kay, nay, I am 
not of the shabby order when I have the 
strings of government. Kill your sheep at 
famine prices, and knead your bread at a 
figure expressing the rigors of last winter. 
Let Annie make out the bill every day, and 
I at night will double it. You may take my 
word for it, Master John, this spring harvest 
shall bring you in three times as much as 
last autumn’s did. If they cheated you in 
town, my lad, you shall have your change 
in the country. Take thy bill, and write 
down quickly.” 

However, this did not meet my views of 
what an honest man should do ; and I went 
to consult my mother about it, as all the ac- 
counts would be made in her name. 

Dear mother thought that if the King 


paid only half again as much as other peo- 
ple would have to pay, it would be perhaps 
the proper thing, the half being due for loyal- 
ty ; and here she quoted an ancient saying, 

“The King and his staff 
Be a man and a half 

which, according to her judgment, ruled be- 
yond dispute the law of the present ques- 
tion. To argue with her after that (which 
she brought up with such triumph) would 
have been worse thau useless. Therefore I 
just told Annie to make the bills at a third 
below the current market prices, so that the 
upshot would be fair. She promised me hon- 
estly that she would, but with a twinkle in 
her bright blue eyes, which she must have 
caught from Tom Faggus. It always has 
appeared to me that stem and downright 
honesty upon money matters is a thing not 
understood of women, be they as good as 
good can be. 

The yellows and the reds together num- 
bered a hundred and twenty men, most of 
whom slept in our barns and stacks ; and 
besides these we had fifteen troopers of the 
regular army. You may suppose that all 
the country was turned upside down about 
it ; and the folk who came to see them drill 
— by no means a needless exercise — were a 
greater plague than the soldiers. The offi- 
cers, too, of the Devonshire band were such 
a torment to us, that we almost wished their 
men had dismissed them, "as the Somerset 
troop had done with theirs. For we could 
not keep them out of our house, being all 
young men of good family, aud therefore 
not to be met with bars. And having now 
three lovely maidens (for even Lizzy might 
be called so, when she cared to please), 
mother and I were at wit’s ends, on account 
of those blessed officers. I never got a wink 
of sleep, they came whistling under the win- 
dow so ; and directly I went out to chase 
them, there was nothing but a cat to see. 

Therefore all of us were right glad (ex- 
cept perhaps Farmer Snowe, from whom we 
had bought some victuals at rare price) 
when Jeremy Stickles gave orders to march, 
and we began to try to do it. A good deal 
of boasting went overhead, as our men de- 
filed along the lane, and the thick broad 
patins of pennywort jutted out between the 
stones, ready to heal their bruises. The 
parish choir came part of the way, and the 
singing -loft from Countisbury ; and they 
kept our soldiers’ spirits up with some of 
the most pugnacious Psalms. Parson Bow- 
den marched ahead, leading all our van and 
file, as against the Papists, and promising to 
go with us till we came to bullet distance. 
Therefore we marched bravely on, and chil- 
dren came to look at us. And I wonder- 
ed where Uncle Reuben was, who ought to 
have led the culverins (whereof we had no 
less than three) if Stickles could only have 


LORNA DOONE. 


197 


found him; and then I thought of little 
Ruth ; and, without any fault on my part, 
my heart went down within me. 

The culverins were laid on bark, and all 
our horses pulling them, and looking round 
every now and then, with their ears curved 
up like a squirreled nut, and their noses 
tossing anxiously, to know what sort of 
plow it was man had been pleased to put be- 
hind them — man, whose endless whims and 
wildness they could never understand, any 
more than they could satisfy. However, 
they pulled their very best — as all our horses 
always do — and the culverins went up the 
hill, without smack of whip, or swearing. 
It had been arranged, very justly no doubt, 
and quite in keeping with the spirit of the 
Constitution, but, as it proved, not too wise- 
ly, that either body of men should act in its 
own county only. So wheu we reached the 
top of the hill, the sons of Devon marched 
on, and across the track leading into Doone- 
gate, so as to fetch round the western side, 
and attack with their culverin from the cliffs, 
whence the sentry had challenged me on the 
night of my passing the entrance. Mean- 
while the yellow lads were to stay upon the 
eastern highland, whence Uncle Reuben and 
myself had reconnoitred so long ago; and 
whence I had leaped into the valley at the 
time of the great snow-drifts. And here 
they were not to show themselves, but keep 
their culverin in the woods until their cous- 
ins of Devon appeared on the opposite para- 
pet of the glen. 

The third culverin was intrusted to the 
fifteen troopers, who with ten picked soldiers 
from either trained band, making in all five- 
and-thirty men, were to assault the Doone- 
gate itself, while the outlaws were placed 
between two fires from the eastern cliff and 
the western. And with this force went Jer- 
emy Stickles, and with it went myself, as 
knowing more about the passage than any 
other stranger did. Therefore, if I have put 
it clearly, as I strive to do, you will see that 
the Doones must repulse at once three si- 
multaneous attacks, from an army number- 
ing in the whole one hundred and thirty-five 
men, not including the Devonshire officers ; 
fifty men on each side, I mean, and thirty- 
five at the head of the valley. 

The tactics of this grand campaign ap- 
peared to me so clever, and beautifully or- 
dered, that I commended “ Colonel Stickles,” 
as every body now called him, for his great 
ability and mastery of the art of war. He 
admitted that he deserved high praise, but 
said that he was not by any means equally 
certain of success, so large a proportion of 
his forces being only a raw militia, brave 
enough no doubt for any thing, when they 
saw their way to it, but knowing little of 
gunnery, and wholly unused to be shot at. 
Whereas all the Doones were practiced 
marksmen, being compelled when lads (like 


the Balearic slingers) to strike down their 
meals before tasting them. And then Col- 
onel Stickles asked me whether I myself 
could stand fire ; he knew that I was not a 
coward, but this was a different question. 
I told him that I had been shot at once or 
twice before; but nevertheless disliked it 
as much as almost any thing. Upon that, 
he said that I would do ; for that when a 
man got over the first blush of diffidence, 
he soon began to look upon it as a puff of 
destiny. 

I wish I could only tell what happened in 
the battle of that day, especially as nearly 
all the people round these parts, who never 
saw gun-fire in it, have gotten the tale so 
much amiss; and some of them will even 
stand in front of my own hearth, and con- 
tradict me to the teeth, although at the time 
they were not born, nor their fathers put 
into breeches. But in truth I can not tell 
exactly even the part in which I helped; 
how then can I be expected, time by time, 
to lay before you all the little ins and outs 
of places where I myself was not ? Only I 
can contradict things which I know could 
not have been, and what I plainly saw should 
not be controverted in my own house. 

Now we five-and-thirty men lay back, a 
little way round the corner, in the hollow 
of the track which leads to the strong Doone- 
gate. Our culverin was in among us, load- 
ed now to the muzzle, and it was not com- 
fortable to know that it might go off at any 
time. Although the yeomanry were not 
come (according to arrangement), some of 
us had horses there, besides the horses who 
dragged the cannon, and now were sniffing 
at it. And there were plenty of spectators 
to mind these horses for us as soon as we 
should charge ; inasmuch as all our friends 
and neighbors, who had so keenly prepared 
for the battle, now resolved to take no part, 
but look on, and praise the winners. 

At last we heard the loud bang -bang, 
which proved that Devon and Somerset were 
pouring their indignation hot into the den 
of malefactors, or at least so we supposed ; 
therefore at double-quick march we advanced 
round the bend of the cliff which had hidden 
us, hoping to find the gate undefended, and 
to blow down all barriers with the fire of 
our cannon. And indeed it seemed likely 
at first to be so, for the wild and mountain- 
ous gorge of rock appeared to be all in pure 
loneliness, except where the colored coats 
of our soldiers, and their metal trappings, 
shone with the sun behind them. There- 
fore we shouted a loud hurra, as for an easy 
victory. 

But while the sound of our cheer rang back 
among the crags above us, a shrill clear 
whistle cleft the air for a single moment, 
and then a dozen carbines bellowed, and all 
among us flew murderous lead. Several of 
our men rolled over, but the rest rushed on 


198 


LORNA DOONE. 


like Britons, Jeremy and myself in front, 
while we heard the horses plunging at the 
loaded gun behind us. “Now, my lads,” 
cried Jeremy, “ oue dash, and we are beyond 
them !” For he saw that the foe was over- 
head in the gallery of brush-wood. 

Onr men with a brave shout answered 
him, for his courage was hue example ; and 
we leaped iu under the feet of the foe before 
they could load their guns again. But here, 
when the foremost among us were past, an 
awful crash rang behind us, with the shrieks 
of men, and the din of metal, and the horri- 
ble screaming of horses. The trunk of the 
tree had been launched overhead, and crash- 
ed into the very midst of us. Our cannon 
was uuder it, so were two men, and a horse 
with his poor back broken. Another horse 
vainly struggled to rise, with his thigh-bone 
smashed and protruding. 

Now I lost all presence of mind at this, 
for I loved both those good horses, and 
shouting for any to follow me, dashed head- 
long into the cavern. Some five or six men 
came after me, the foremost of whom was 
Jeremy, when a storm of shot whistled and 
pattered around me, with a blaze of light 
and a thunderous roar. Ou I leaped like a 
madman, and pounced on one gunner, and 
hurled him across his culverin ; but the oth- 
ers had fled, and a heavy oak door fell to 
with a bang behind them. So utterly were 
my senses gone, and naught but strength re- 
mainiug, that I caught up the cannon with 
both hands, and dashed it, breech-first, at the 
door-way. The solid oak burst with the 
blow, and the gun stuck fast, like a build- 
er’s putlog. 

But here I looked round in vain for any to 
come and follow up my success. The scanty 
light showed me no figure moving through 
the length of the tunnel behind me ; only a 
heavy groan or two went to my heart, and 
chilled it. So I hurried back to seek Jer- 
emy, fearing that he must be smitten down. 

And so indeed I found him, as well as 
three other poor fellows, struck by the 
charge of the culverin, which had passed so 
close beside me. Two of the four were as 
dead as stones, and growing cold already, 
but Jeremy and the other could manage to 
groan just now and then. So I turned my 
attention to them, and thought no more of 
fighting. 

Having so many wounded men, and so 
many dead among us, we loitered at the 
cavern’s mouth, and looked at one another, 
wishing only for somebody to come and take 
command of us. But no one came ; and I 
was grieved so much about poor Jeremy, be- 
sides being wholly unused to any violence 
of bloodshed, that I could only keep his 
head up, and try to stop him from bleeding. 
And he looked up at me pitifully, being per- 
haps in a haze of thought, as a calf looks at 
a butcher. 


The shot had taken him in the mouth ,; 
about that no doubt could be, for two of 
his teeth were iu his beard, and one of his 
lips was wanting. I laid his shattered face 
on my breast, and nursed him as a woman 
might. But he looked at me with a jerk at 
this ; and I saw that he wanted coolness. 

While here we staid, quite out of danger 
(for the fellows from the gallery could by no 
means shoot us, even if they remained there, 
and the oaken door whence the others fled 
was blocked up by the culveriu), a boy who 
had no business there (being in fact our 
clerk’s apprentice to the art of shoe-making) 
came round the corner upon us iu the man- 
ner which boys, and only boys, can use with 
grace and freedom ; that is to say, with a 
sudden rush, and a sidelong step, and an im- 
pudence. 

“ Got the worst of it !” cried the boy : 
“better be off, all of you. Zomerzett and 
De^on a-vighting; and the Doones have 
drashed ’em both. Maister Ridd, even thee 
be drashed.” 

We few, who yet remained of the force 
which was to have won the Doone-gate, 
gazed at one another like so many fools, and 
nothing more. For we still had some faint 
hopes of winning the day, and recovering 
our reputation, by means of what the other 
men might have done without us. . And we 
could not understand at all how Devonshire 
and Somerset, being embarked in the same 
cause, should be fighting with one another. 

Finding nothing more to be done in the 
way of carrying on the war, we laid poor 
Master Stickles and two more of the wound- 
ed upon the carriage of bark and hurdles, 
whereon our gun had lain, and we rolled the 
gun into the river, and harnessed the horses 
yet alive, and put the others* out of their 
pain, and sadly wended homeward, feeling 
ourselves to be thoroughly beaten, yet ready 
to maintain that it was no fault of ours 
whatever. And in this opinion the women 
joined, being only too glad and thankful to 
see us come home alive again. 

Now, this enterprise having failed so, I 
prefer not to dwell too long upon it, only 
just to show the mischief which lay at the 
root of the failure. And this mischief was 
the vile jealousy betwixt red and yellow 
uniform. Now I try to speak impartially, 
belonging no more to Somerset than I do to 
Devonshire, living upon the borders, and 
born of either county. The tale was told me 
by one side first, and then quite to a differ- 
ent tune by the other, and then by both to- 
gether, with very hot words of reviling, and 
a desire to fight it out again. And putting 
this with that, the truth appears to be as 
follows : 

The men of Devon, who bore red facings, 
had a long way to go round the hills before 
they could get into due position on the west- 
ern side of the Doone Glen. And knowing 


LORNA DOONE. 


199 


That their cousins in yellow would claim the 
whole of the glory if allowed to be first with 
the firing, these worthy fellows waited not 
to take good aim with their cannon, seeing 
the others about to shoot, but fettled it any- 
how on the slope, pointing in a general di- 
rection ; and trusting in God for aim worthi- 
ness, laid the rope to the breech, and fired. 
Now, as Providence ordained it, the shot, 
which was a casual mixture of any thing 
considered hard — for instance, jug-bottoms 
and knobs of doors — the whole of this per- 
nicious dose came scattering and shattering 
among the unfortunate yellow men upon the 
opposite cliff, killing one and wounding two. 

Now what did the men of Somerset do 
but, instead of waiting for their friends to 
send round and beg pardon, train their gun 
full mouth upon them, and with a vicious 
meaning shoot ? Nor only this, but they 
loudly cheered when they saw four or five 
redcoats lie low ; for which savage feeling 
not even the remarks of the Devonshire men 
concerning their coats could entirely excuse 
them. Now I need not tell the rest of it, for 
the tale makes a man discontented. Enough 
that both sides waxed hotter and hotter 
with the fire of destruction. And but that 
the gorge of the cliffs lay between, very few 
would have lived to tell of it ; for our West- 
ern blood becomes stiff and firm when churn- 
ed with the sense of wrong in it. 

At last the Doones (who must have laugh- 
ed at the thunder passing overhead), recall- 
ing their men from the gallery, issued out of 
Gwenny’s gate (which had been wholly over- 
looked) and fell on the rear of the Somer- 
set men, and slew four beside their cannon. 
Then, while the survivors ran away, the 
outlaws took the hot culverin, and rolled it 
down into their valley. Thus, of the three 
guns set forth that morning, only one ever 
came home again, and that was the gun of 
the Devonshire men, who dragged it home 
themselves, with the view of making a boast 
about it. 

This was a melancholy end of our brave 
setting out ; and every body blamed every 
one else, and several of us wanted to have 
the whole thing over again, as then we must 
have righted it. But upon one point all 
agreed, by some reasoning not clear to me, 
that the root of the evil was to be found 
in the way Parson Bowden went up the hill 
with his hat on, and no cassock. 


CHAPTER LY. 

GETTING INTO CHANCERY. 

Two of the Devonshire officers (Captains 
Pyke and Dalian) now took command of the 
men who were left, and ordered all to go 
home again, commending much the bravery 
which had been displayed on all sides, and 


the loyalty to the King, and the English 
constitution. This last word always seems 
to me to settle every thing when said, be- 
cause nobody understands it, and yet all can 
puzzle their neighbors. So the Devonshire 
men, having beans to sow (which they ought 
to have done on Good-Friday), went home, 
and our Somerset friends only staid for two 
days more to backbite them. 

To me the whole thing was purely griev- 
ous ; not from any sense of defeat (though 
that was bad enough), but from the pain and 
anguish caused by death, and wounds, and 
mourning. u Surely we have woes enough,* 
I used to think of an evening, when the poor 
fellows could not sleep, or rest, or let others 
rest around them ; “ surely all this smell of 
wounds is not incense men should pay to the 
God who made them. Death, when it comes 
and is done with, may be a bliss to any one ; 
but the doubt of life or death, when a man 
lies, as it were, like a trunk upon the saw- 
pit, and a grisly head looks up at him, and 
the groans of pain are cleaving him, this 
would be beyond all bearing, but for Na- 
ture’s sap — sweet hope.” 

Jeremy Stickles lay and tossed, and thrust 
up his feet in agony, and bit with his lip- 
less mouth the clothes, and was proud to see 
blood upon them. He looked at us ever so 
many times, as much as to say, “ Fools, let 
me die; then I shall have some comfort;” 
but we nodded at him sagely, especially the 
women, trying to convey to him on no ac- 
count to die yet. And then we talked to 
one another (on purpose for him to hear us) 
how brave he was, and not the man to knock 
nnder in a hurry, and how he should have 
the victory yet, and how well he looked, 
considering. 

These things cheered him a little now, and 
a little more next time ; aud every time we 
went on so, he took it with less impatience. 
Then once when he had been very quiet, and 
not even tried to frown at us, Annie leaned 
over and kissed his forehead, and spread the 
pillows and sheet, with a curve as delicate 
as his own white ears ; and then he feebly 
lifted hands, and prayed to God to bless her. 
And after that he came round gently, though 
never to the man he had been, and never to 
speak loud again. 

For a time (as I may have implied be- 
fore) Master Stickles’s authority, and man- 
ner of levying duties, had not been taken 
kindly by the people round our neighbor- 
hood. The manors of East Lynn and West 
Lynn, and even that of Woolhanger — al- 
though just then all three were at issue 
about some rights of wreck, and the hang- 
ing of a sheep -stealer (a man of no great 
eminence, yet claimed by each, for the sake 
of his clothes) — these three, having their 
rights impugned, or even superseded, as 
they declared, by the quartering of soldiers 
in their neighborhood, united very kindly 


200 


LOKNA DOONE. 


to oppose the King’s Commissioner. How- 
ever, Jeremy had contrived to conciliate the 
whole of them, not so much by any thing 
engaging in his deportment, or delicate ad- 
dress, as by holding out bright hopes that 
the plunder of the Doone Glen might be- 
come divisible among the adjoining manors. 
Now I have never discovered a thing which 
the lords of manors (at least in our part of 
the world) do not believe to belong to them- 
selves, if only they could get their rights. 
And it did seem natural enough that if the 
Doones were ousted, and a nice collection of 
prey remained, this should be parted among 
the people having elder rights of plunder. 
Nevertheless, Master Jeremy knew that the 
soldiers would have the first of it, and the 
King what they could not carry. 

And perhaps he was punished justly for 
language so misleading, by the general in- 
dignation of the people all around us, not at 
his failure, but at himself, for that which he 
could in nowise prevent. And the stewards 
of the manors rode up to our house on pur- 
pose to reproach him, and were greatly vexed 
with all of us, because he was too ill to see 
them. 

To myself (though by rights the last to be 
thought of among so much pain and trouble) 
Jeremy’s wound was a great misfortune in 
more ways than one. In the first place, it 
deferred my chance of imparting either to 
my mother or to Mistress Lorna my firm be- 
lief that the maid I loved was not sprung 
from the race which had slain my father, 
neither could he in any way have offended 
against her family. And this discovery I 
was yearning more and more to declare to 
them, being forced to see (even in the midst 
of all our warlike troubles) that a certain 
difference was growing betwixt them both, 
and betwixt them and me. For although 
the words of the Counselor had seemed to 
fail among us, being bravely met and scat- 
tered, yet our courage was but as wind fling- 
ing wide the tare-seeds, when the sower casts 
them from his bag. The crop may not come 
evenly, many places may long lie bare, and 
the field be all in patches ; yet almost every 
vetch will spring, and tiller out, and stretch 
across the scatterings where the wind puffed. 

And so dear mother and darling Lorna 
now had been for many a day thinking, 
worrying, and wearing about the matter be- 
tween us. Neither liked to look at the oth- 
er as they used to do, with mother admiring 
Lorna’s eyes, and grace, and form of breed- 
ing, and Lorna loving mother’s goodness, 
softness, and simplicity. And the saddest 
and most hurtful thing was that neither 
could ask the other of the shadow falling be- 
tween them. And so it went on, and deep- 
ened. . 

In the next place, Colonel Stickles’s illness 
was a grievous thing to us, in that we had 
no one now to command the troopers. Ten 


of these were still alive, and so well ap- 
proved to us, that they could never fancy 
aught, whether for dinner or supper, without 
its being forthcoming. If they wanted trout, 
they should have it ; if colloped venison, or 
broiled ham, or salmon from Lynmouth and 
Trentisoe, or truffles from the woodside, all 
these were at the warrior’s service until they 
lusted for something else. Even the wound- 
ed men ate nobly; all except poor Jeremy, 
who was forced to have a young elder-shoot, 
with the pith drawn, for to feed him. And 
once when they wanted pickled loach (from 
my description of it), I took up my boyish 
sport again, and pronged them a good jarful. 
Therefore none of them could complain : and 
yet they were not satisfied; perhaps for 
want of complaining. 

Be that as it might, we knew that if they 
once resolved to go (as they might do at 
any j<ime, with only a corporal over them), 
all our house, and all our goods, ay, and our 
own precious lives, would and must be at 
the mercy of embittered enemies. For now 
the Doones, having driven back, as every 
one said, five hundred men — though not 
thirty had ever fought with them — were in 
such feather all round the country, that 
nothing was too good for them. Offerings 
poured in at the Doone -gate faster than 
Doones could away with them, and the sym- 
pathy both of Devon and Somerset became 
almost oppressive. And perhaps this wealth 
of congratulation, and mutual good feeling 
between plunderer and victim, saved us from 
any piece of spite ; kindliness having won 
the day, and every one loving every one. 

But yet another cause arose, and this the 
strongest one of all, to prove the need of 
Stickles’s aid, and calamity of his illness. 
And this came to our knowledge first, with- 
out much time to think of it. For two men 
appeared at our gate one day,. stripped to 
their shirts, and void of horses, and looking 
very sorrowful. Now, having some fear of 
attack from the Doones, and scarce know- 
ing what their tricks might be, we received 
these strangers cautiously, desiring to know 
who they were before we let them see all our 
premises. 

However, it soon became plain to us that 
although they might not be honest fellows, 
at any rate they were not Doones; and so 
we took them in, and fed, and left them to 
tell their business. And this they were glad 
enough to do, as men who have been mal- 
treated almost always are. And it was not 
for us to contradict them, lest our victuals 
should go amiss. 

These two very worthy fellows — nay, 
more than that by their own account, being 
downright martyrs — were come, for the 
public benefit, from the Court of Chancery, 
sitting for every body’s good, and boldly re- 
dressing evil. This Court has a power of 
scent unknown to the Common-law practi- 


LORNA DOONE. 


201 


tioners, and slowly, yet surely, tracks its 
game; even as tlie great lumbering dogs 
now introduced from Spain, and called by 
some people “ pointers,” differ from the swift 
gaze-hound, who sees his prey and runs him 
down, in the manner of the common law- 
yers. If a man’s ill fate should drive him 
to make choice between these two, let him 
rather be chased by the hounds of law, than 
tracked by the dogs of Equity. 

Now, as it fell in a very black day (for all 
except the lawyers), His Majesty’s Court of 
Chancery, if that be what it called itself, 
gained scent of poor Lorna’s life, and of all 
that might be made of it. Whether through 
that brave young lord who ran into such 
peril, or through any of his friends; or 
whether through that deep old Counselor, 
whose game none might penetrate ; or 
through any disclosures of the Italian wom- 
an, or even of Jeremy himself; none just 
now could tell us : only this truth was too 
clear — Chancery had heard of Lorna, and 
then had seen how rich she was ; and never 
delaying in one thing, had opened mouth, 
and swallowed her. 

The Doones, with a share of that dry hu- 
mor which was in them hereditary, had wel- 
comed the two apparitors (if that be the 
proper name for them) and led them kindly 
down the valley, and told them then to serve 
their writ. Misliking the look of things, 
these poor men began to fumble among their 
clothes ; upon which the Doones cried, “ Off 
with them ! Let us see if your message be 
on your skins.” And with no more manners 
than that, they stripped and lashed them 
out of the valley, only bidding them come to 
us, if they wanted Lorna Doone : and to us 
they came accordingly. Neither were they 
sure at first but that we should treat them 
so; for they had no knowledge of west 
country, and thought it quite a godless place, 
wherein no writ was holy. 

We however comforted and cheered them 
so considerably that, in gratitude, they show- 
ed their writs, to which they had stuck like 
leeches. And these were twofold ; one ad- 
dressed to Mistress Lorna Doone, so called, 
and bidding her keep in readiness to travel 
whenever called upon, and commit herself 
to nobody, except the accredited messengers 
of the right honorable Court ; while the oth- 
er was addressed to all subjects of His Maj- 
esty, having custody of Lorna Doone, or any 
power over her. And this last both threat- 
ened and exhorted, and held out hopes of 
recompense, if she were rendered truly. My 
mother and I held consultation over both 
these documents, with a mixture of some 
wrath and fear, and a fork of great sorrow 
to stir them. And now having Jeremy 
Stickles’s leave, which he gave with a nod 
when I told him all, and at last made him 
understand it, I laid bare to my mother as 
well what I knew as what I merely sur- 


mised or guessed, concerning Lorna’s par- 
entage. All this she received with great 
tears, and wonder, and fervent thanks to 
God, and still more fervent praise of her 
son, who had nothing whatever to do with 
it. However, now the question was, how to 
act about these writs. And herein it was 
most unlucky that we could not have Mas- 
ter Stickles, with his knowledge of the world, 
and especially of the law courts, to advise us 
what to do, and to help in doing it. And 
firstly, of the first I said, “ We have rogues 
to deal with : but try we not to rogue them.” 

To this, in some measure, dear mother 
agreed, though she could not see the justice 
of it, yet thought that it might be wiser, be- 
cause of our want of practice. And then I 
said, “ Now, we are bound to tell Lorna, and 
to serve her citation upon her, which these 
good fellows have given us.” 

“Then go and do it thyself, my son,” 
mother replied with a mournful smile, mis- 
doubting what the end might be. So I took 
the slip of brown parchment, and went to 
seek my darling. 

Lorna was in her favorite place, the little 
garden which she tended with such care and 
diligence. Seeing how the maiden loved it, 
and was happy there, I had labored hard to 
fence it from the dangers of the wood. And 
here she had corrected me, with better taste, 
and sense of pleasure, and the joys of mus- 
ing. For I meant to shut out the brook, 
and build my fence inside of it ; but Lorna 
said no; if we must have a fence, which 
could not but be injury, at any rate leave 
the stream inside, and a pleasant bank be- 
yond it. And soon I perceived that she was 
right, though not so much as afterward ; for 
the fairest of all things in a garden, and in 
summer-time most useful, is a brook of crys- 
tal water ; where a man may come and med- 
itate, and the flowers may lean and see them- 
selves, and the rays of the sun are purfled. 
Now partly with her own white hands, and 
partly with Gwenny’s red ones, Lorna had 
made of this sunny spot a haven of beauty 
to dwell in. It was not only that colors lay 
in the harmony we would seek of them ; 
neither was it the height of plants, sloping 
to one another; nor even the delicate tone 
of foliage following suit, and neighboring. 
Even the breathing of the wind, soft and 
gentle in and out, moving things that need 
not move, and passing longer-stalked ones, 
even this was not enough, among the flush 
of fragrance, to tell a man the reason of his 
quiet satisfaction. But so it shall forever 
be. As the river we float upon (with wine, 
and flowers, and music) is nothing at the 
well-spring but a bubble without reason. 

Feeling many things, but thinking, with- 
out much to guide me over the grass-plats 
laid between, I went up to Lorna. She in 
a shower of damask roses, raised her eyes, 
and looked at me. And even now in those 


202 


LORNA DOONE. 


sweet eyes, so deep with loving - kindness, 
and soft maiden dreamings, there seemed to 
be a slight unwilling, half-confessed with- 
drawal; overcome by love and duty, yet a 
painful thing to see. 

“ Darling,” I said, “ are your spirits good ? 
Are you strong enough to-day to bear a tale 
of cruel sorrow, but which perhaps, when 
your tears are shed, will leave you all the 
happier ?” 

“ What can you mean ?” she answered, 
trembling, not having been very strong of 
late, and now surprised at my manner : “ are 
you come to give me up, John ?” 

“ Not very likely,” I replied ; “ neither do 
I hope such a thing would leave you all the 
happier. Oh, Lorna, if you can think that so 
quickly as you seem to have done ; now you 
have every prospect, and strong temptation 
to it. You are far, far above me in the world, 
and I have no right to claim you. Perhaps, 
when you have heard these tidings, you will 
say , 1 John Ridd, begone : your life and mine 
are parted.’ ” 

“ Will I ?” cried Lorna, with all the bright- 
ness of her playful ways returning : “ you 
very foolish and jealous John, how shall I 
punish you for this? Am I to forsake ev- 
ery flower I have, and not even know that 
the world goes round, while I look up at you 
the whole day long, and say, ‘ John, I love, 
love, love you ?’ ” 

During these words, she leaned upon me, 
half in gay imitation of what I so often made 
her do, and half in depth of earnestness, as 
the thrice-repeated word grew stronger, and 
grew warmer, with and to her heart. And 
as she looked up at the finish, saying “ you ” 
so musically, I was much inclined to clasp 
her round ; but remembering who she was, 
forbore ; at which she seemed surprised with 
me. 

“ Mistress Lorna,” I replied, with I know 
not what temptation, making little of her 
caresses, though more than all my heart to 
me, “ Mistress Lorna, you must keep your 
rank, and proper dignity. You must never 
look at me with any thing but pity now.” 

“I shall look at you with pity, John,” 
said Lorna, trying to laugh it off, yet not 
knowing what to make of me, “ if you talk 
any more of this nonsense, knowing me as 
you ought to do. I shall even begin to think 
that you and your friends are weary of me, 
and of so long supporting me, and are only 
seeking cause to send me back to my old 
misery. If it be so, I will go. My life mat- 
ters little to any one.” Here the great 
bright tears arose ; but the maiden was too 
proud to sob. 

“ Sweetest of all sweet loves,” I cried, for 
the sign of a tear defeated me, “ what pos- 
sibility could make me ever give up Lorna ?” 

“ Dearest of all dears,” she answered, “ if 
you dearly love me, what possibility could 
make me ever give you up, dear?” 


| Upon that there was no more forbearing, 
but I kissed and clasped her, whether she 
were Countess, or whether Queen of En- 
gland ; mine she was, at least in heart ; and 
mine she should be wholly. And she being 
of the same opinion, nothing was said be- 
tween us. 

“ Now, Lorna,” said I, as she hung on my 
arm, willing to trust me anywhere, “come 
to your little plant-house, and hear my mov- 
ing story.” 

“ No story can move me much, dear,” she 
answered, rather faintly, for any excitement 
staid with her ; “ since I know your strength 
of kindness, scarcely any tale can move me, 
unless it be of yourself, love, or of my poor 
mother.” 

“ It is of your poor mother, darling. Can 
you bear to hear it?” And yet I wondered 
why she did not say as much of her father. 

“ Yes, I can hear any thing. But although 
I can not see her, and have long forgotten, 
I could not bear to hear ill of her.” 

“ There is no ill to hear, sweet child, ex- 
cept of evil done to her. Lorna, you are of 
an ill-starred race.” 

“ Better that than a wicked race,” she 
answered, with her usual quickness, leaping 
at conclusion : “ tell me I am not a Doone, 
and I will — but I can not love you more.” 

“You are not a Doone, my Lorna; for 
that, at least, I can answer, though I know 
not what your name is.” 

“And my father- — your father— what I 
mean is — ” 

“ Your father and mine never met one an- 
other. Your father was killed by an acci- 
dent in the Pyrenean mountains, and your 
mother by the Doones; or at least they 
caused her death, and carried you away from 
her.” 

All this, coming as in one breath upon the 
sensitive maiden, was more than she could 
bear all at once ; as any but a fool like me 
must of course have known. She lay back 
on the garden bench, with her black hair 
shed on the oaken bark, while her color went 
and came ; and only by that, and her quiv- 
ering breast, could any one say that she lived 
and thought. And yet she pressed my hand 
with hers, that now I might tell her all of it. 


CHAPTER LYI. 

JOHN BECOMES TOO POPULAR 

No flower that I have ever seen, either in 
shifting of light and shade, or in the pearly 
morning, may vie with a fair young wom- 
an’s face when tender thought and quick 
emotion vary, enrich, and beautify it. Thus 
my Lorna hearkened softly, almost without 
word or gesture, yet with sighs and glances 
telling, and the pressure of my hand, how 
each word was moving her. 


LORNA DOONE. 


203 


When at last my tale was done, she turned 
away, and wept bitterly for the sad fate of 
her parents. But, to my surprise, she spoke 
not even a word of wrath or rancor. She 
seemed to take it all as fate.” 

u Lorna, darling,” I said at length, for 
men are more impatient in trials of . time 
than women are, “do you not even wish to 
know what your proper name is ?” 

“How can it matter to me, John?” she 
answered, with a depth of grief which made 
me seem a trifler. “ It can never matter 
now, when there are none to share it.” 

“ Poor little soul !” was all I said, in a tone 
of purest pity; and to my surprise she turn- 
ed upon me, caught me in her arms, and 
loved me as she never had done before. 

“ Dearest, I have you,” she cried ; “ you, 
and only you, love. Having you, I want no 
other. All my life is one with yours. Oh, 
John, how can I treat you so ?” 

Blushing through the wet of weeping, 
and the gloom of pondering, yet she would 
not hide her eyes, but folded me, and dwelt 
on me. 

“ I can not believe,” in the pride of my 
joy, I whispered into one little ear, “that 
you could ever so love me, beauty, as to give 
up the world for me.” 

“Would you give up your farm for me, 
John ?” cried Lorna, leaping back and look- 
ing, with her wondrous power of light, at 
me ; “ would you give up your mother, your 
sisters, your home, and all that you have 
in the world, and every hope of your life, 
John ?” 

“Of course I would. Without two 
thoughts. You know it ; you know it, Lor- 
na.” 

“It is true that I do,” she answered, in 
a tone of deepest sadness ; “ and it is this 
power of your love which has made me love 
you so. No good can come of it; no good. 
God’s face is set against selfishness.” 

As she spoke in that low tone, I gazed at 
the clear lines of her face (where every curve 
was perfect), not with love and wonder only, 
but with a strange new sense of awe. 

“ Darling,” I said, “ come nearer to me. 
Give me surety against that. For God’s 
sake never frighten me with the thought 
that He would part us.” 

“Does it, then, so frighten you?” she 
whispered, coming close to me; “I know it, 
dear; I have known it long; but it never 
frightens me. It makes me sad, and very 
lonely, till I can remember !” 

“ Till you can remember what ?” I asked, 
with a long, deep shudder; for we are so 
superstitious. 

“ Until I do remember, love, that you will 
soon come back to me, and be my own for- 
ever. This is what I always think of ; this 
is what I hope for.” 

Although her eyes were so glorious, and 
beaming with eternity, this distant sort of 


beatitude was not much to my liking. I 
wanted to have my love on earth, and my 
dear wife in my own home, and children in 
good time, if God should please to send us 
any. And then I would be to them exactly 
what my father was to me. And besides 
all this, I doubted much about being fit for 
heaven, where no plows are, and no cattle, 
unless sacrificed bulls went thither. 

Therefore I said, “Now kiss me, Lorna, 
and don’t talk any nonsense.” And the dar- 
ling came and did it ; being kindly obedi- 
ent, as the other world often makes us. 

“You sweet love,” I said at this, being 
slave to her soft obedience, “ do you suppose 
I should be content to leave you until Elys- 
ium?” 

“How on earth can I tell, dear John, 
what you will be content with ?” 

“You, and only you,” said I; “the whole 
of it lies in a syllable. Now you know my 
entire want, and want must be my comfort.” 

“But surely if I have money, sir, and 
birth, and rank, and all sorts of grandeur, 
you would never dare to think of me.” 

She drew herself up with an air of pride, 
as she gravely pronounced these words, and 
gave me a scornful glance, or tried; and 
turned away as if to enter some grand coach 
or palace ; while I was so amazed and 
grieved in my raw simplicity, especially 
after the way in which she had first received 
my news (so loving and warm-hearted), that 
I never said a word, but stared and thought, 
“ How does she mean it ?” 

She saw the pain upon my forehead, and 
the wonder in my eyes ; and leaving coach 
and palace too, back she flew to me in a mo- 
ment, as simple as simplest milkmaid. 

“Oh you fearfully stupid John — you in- 
expressibly stupid John,” she cried, with 
both arms round my neck, and her lips upon 
my forehead; “you have called yourself 
thick-headed, John, and I never would be- 
lieve it. But now I do with all my heart. 
Will you never know what I am, love ?” 

“No, Lorna, that I never shall. I can 
understand my mother well, and one, at 
least, of my sisters, and both the Sncwe girls 
very easily, but you I never understand; 
only love you all the more for it.” 

“ Then never try to understand me, if the 
result is that, dear John. And yet I am the 
very simplest of all foolish, simple creatures. 
Nay, I am wrong; therein I yield the palm 
to you, my dear. To think that I can act 
so ! No wonder they want me in London as 
an ornament for the stage, John.” 

Now in after-days, when I heard of Lorna 
as the richest, and noblest, and loveliest lady 
to be found in London, I often remembered 
that little scene, and recalled every word 
and gesture, wondering what lay under it. 
Even now, while it was quite impossible 
once to doubt those clear deep eyes, and the 
bright lips trembling so ; nevertheless I felt 


204 


LORNA DOONE. 


how much the world would have to do with 
it, and that the best and truest people can 
not shake themselves quite free. How- 
ever, for the moment, I was very proud, and 
showed it. 

And herein differs fact from fancy, things 
as they befall us from things as we would 
have them, human ends from human hopes ; 
that the first are moved by a thousand, and 
the last on two wheels only, which (being 
named) are desire and fear. Hope, of course, 
is nothing more than desire with a telescope, 
magnifying distant matters, overlooking 
near ones ; opening one eye on the objects, 
closing the other to all objections. And if 
hope be the future tense of desire, the future 
of fear is religion — at least with too many 
of us. 

Whether I am right or wrong in these 
small moralities, one thing is sure enough, 
to wit, that hope is the fastest traveler, at 
any rate in the time of youth. And so I 
hoped that Lorna might be proved of blame- 
less family, and honorable rank and fortune; 
and yet none the less for that, love me and 
belong to me. So I led her into the house, 
and she fell into my mother’s arms ; and I 
left them to have a good cry of it, with An- 
nie ready to help them. 

If Master Stickles should not mend enough 
to gain his speech a little, and declare to us 
all he knew, I was to set out for Watchett, 
riding upon horseback, and there to hire a 
cart with wheels, such as we had not begun 
as yet to use on Exmoor. For all our work 
went on broad wood, with runners and with 
earth-hoards ; and many of us still looked 
upon wheels (though mentioned in the Bible) 
as the invention of the evil one, and Phara- 
oh’s especial property. 

Now instead of getting better, Colonel 
Stickles grew worse and worse, in spite of 
all our tendence of him, with simples and 
with nourishment, and no poisonous medi- 
cines, such as doctors would have given him. 
And the fault of this lay not with us, but 
purely with himself and his unquiet consti- 
tution. For he roused himself up to a per- 
fect fever when, through Lizzie’s giddiness, 
he learned the very thing which mother and 
Annie were hiding from him with the ut- 
most care, namely, that Sergeant Bloxham 
had taken upon himself to send direct to 
London, by the Chancery officers, a full re- 
port of what had happened, and of the ill- 
ness of his chief, together with an urgent 
prayer for a full battalion of King’s troops, 
and a plenary commander. 

This Sergeant Bloxham, being senior of 
the surviving soldiers, and a very worthy 
man in his way, but a trifle overzealous, 
had succeeded to the captaincy upon his 
master’s disablement. Then, with desire to 
serve his country and show his education, 
he sat up most part of three nights, and 
wrote this wonderful report by the aid of 


our stable lantern. It was a very fine piece 
of work, as three men to whom he read it 
(but only one at time) pronounced, being 
under seal of secrecy. And all might have 
gone well with it, if the author could only 
have held his tongue when near the ears of 
women. But this was beyond his sense, as 
it seems, although so good a writer. For 
having heard that our Lizzie was a famous 
judge of literature (as indeed she told al- 
most every one), he could not contain him- 
self, but must have her opinion upon his 
work. 

Lizzie sat on a log of wood, and listened 
with all her ears up, having made proviso 
that no one else should be there to inter- 
rupt her. And she put in a syllable here 
and there, and many a time she took out one 
(for the sergeant overloaded his gun more 
often than undercharged it, like a liberal 
man„of letters) ; and then she declared the 
result so good, and the style to be so ele- 
gant, so chaste, and yet so fervent, that the 
sergeant broke his pipe in three, and fell in 
love with her on the spot. Now this has 
led me out of my way — as things are al- 
ways doing, partly through their own per- 
verseness, partly through my kind desire to 
give fair turn to all of them, and to all the 
people who do them. If any one expects of 
me a strict and well-drilled story, standing 
“ at attention ” all the time, with hands at 
the side like two wens on my trunk, and 
eyes going neither right nor left, I trow 
that man has been disappointed many a 
page ago, and has left me to my evil ways ; 
and if not, I love his charity. Therefore let 
me seek his grace, and get back, and just 
begin again. 

That great dispatch was sent to London 
by the Chancery officers, whom we fitted up 
with clothes, and for three days fattened 
them ; which in strict justice they needed 
much, as well as in point of equity. They 
were kind enough to be pleased with us, 
and accepted my new shirts generously: 
and urgent as their business was, another 
week (as they both declared) could do no 
harm to nobody, and might set them upon 
their legs again. And knowing, although 
they were London men, that fish do live in 
water, these two fellows went fishing all 
day, but never landed any thing. How- 
ever, their holiday was cut short ; for the 
sergeant, having finished now his narrative 
of proceedings, was not the man to let it hang 
fire, and be quenched perhaps by Stickles. 

Therefore, having done their business, and 
served both citations, these two good men 
had a pannier of victuals put up by dear 
Annie, and borrowing two of our horses, 
rode to Dunster, where they left them, and 
hired on toward London. We had not time 
to like them much, and so we did not miss 
them, especially in our great anxiety about 
poor Master Stickles. 


LORN A DOONE. 


205 


Jeremy lay between life and death for at 
least a fortnight. If the link of chain had 
flown upward (for half a link of chain it was 
which toot: him in the mouth so), even one 
inch upward, the poor man could have need- 
ed no one except Parson Bowden ; for the 
bottom of his skull, which holds the brain 
as in an egg-cup, must have clean gone from 
him. But striking him horizontally, and a 
little upon the skew, the metal came out 
at the back of his neck, and (the powder 
not being strong, I suppose) it lodged in his 
leather collar. 

Now the rust of this iron hung in the 
wound, or at least we thought so; though 
since I have talked with a man of medicine, 
I am not so sure of it. And our chief aim 
■was to purge this rust; when rather we 
should have stopped the hole, and let the 
oxide do its worst, with a plug of new flesh 
on both sides of it. 

At last I prevailed upon him by argu- 
ment that he must get better, to save him- 
self from being ignobly and unjustly super- 
seded ; and hereupon I reviled Sergeant 
Bloxham more fiercely than Jeremy’s self 
could have done, and indeed to such a pitch 
that Jeremy almost forgave him, and be- 
came much milder. Aud after that his fe- 
ver and the inflammation of his wound di- 
minished very rapidly. 

However, not knowing what might hap- 
pen, or even how soon poor Lorna might be 
taken from our power, aud, falling into law- 
yers’ hands, have cause to wish herself most 
heartily back among the robbers, I set forth 
one day for Watchett, taking advantage of 
the visit of some troopers from an outpost, 
who would make our house quite safe. I 
rode alone, being fully primed, and having 
no misgivings. For it was said that even 
the Doones had begun to fear me, since I 
cast their culverin through the door, as 
above related; and they could not but be- 
lieve, from my being still untouched (al- 
though so large an object) in the thickest 
of their fire, both of gun and cannon, that I 
must bear a charmed life, proof against ball 
and bullet. However, I knew that Carver 
Doone was not a likely man to hold any su- 
perstitious opinions ; and of him I had an 
instinctive dread, although quite ready to 
face him. 

Riding along, I meditated upon Lorna’s 
history ; how many things were now begin- 
ning to unfold themselves which had been 
obscure and dark ! For instance, Sir Ensor 
Doone’s consent, or, to say the least, his in- 
difference, to her marriage with a yeoman ; 
which in a man so proud (though dying) 
had greatly puzzled both of us. But now, 
if she not only proved to be no grandchild 
of the Doone, but even descended from his 
enemy, it was natural enough that he should 
feel no great repugnance to her humiliation. 
And that Lorna’s father had been a foe to 


the house of Doone, I gathered from her 
mother’s cry when she beheld their leader. 
Moreover that fact would supply their mo- 
tive in carrying off the unfortunate little 
creature, and rearing her among them, and 
as one of their own family, yet hiding her 
true birth from her. She was a u great 
card,” as we say, when playing all-fours at 
Christmas-time ; and if One of them could 
marry her before she learned of right and 
wrong, vast property, enough to buy par- 
dons for a thousand Doones, would be at 
their mercy. And since I was come to know 
Lorna better, and she to know me thorough- 
ly — many things had been outspoken which 
her early bashfulness had kept covered from 
me. Attempts, I mean, to pledge her love 
to this one, or that other ; some of which, 
perhaps, might have been successful, if there 
had not been too many. 

And then, as her beauty grew richer and 
brighter, Carver Doone was smitten strong- 
ly, and would hear of no one else as a suitor 
for her, and by the terror of his claim drove 
off all the others. Here, too, lay the expla- 
nation of a thing which seemed to be against 
the laws of human nature, and upon which 
I longed, but dared not, to cross -question 
Lorna. How could such a lovely girl, al- 
though so young, and brave, and distant, 
have escaped the vile affections of a lawless 
company ? 

But now it was as clear as need be. For 
any proven violence would have utterly vi- 
tiated all claim upon her grand estates ; at 
least as those claims must be urged before a 
court of equity. And therefore all the elders 
(with views upon her real estate) kept strict 
watch on the youngers, who confined their 
views to her personality. 

Now I do not mean to say that all this, or 
the hundred other things which came crowd- 
ing consideration, were half as plain to me 
at the time as I have set them down above. 
Far be it from me to deceive you so. No 
doubt my thoughts were then dark and hazy, 
like an oil-lamp full of fungus ; and I have 
trimmed them, as when they burned, with 
scissors sharpened long afterward. All I 
mean to say is this, that jogging along to a 
certain tune of the horse’s feet which we call 
“ three half-pence and two-pence,” I saw my 
way a little into some things which had 
puzzled me. 

When I knocked at the little door, whose 
sill was gritty and grimed with sand, no one 
came for a very long time to answer me, or 
to let me in. Not wishing to be unmanner- 
ly, I waited a long time, and watched the 
sea, from which the wind was blowing, and 
whose many lips of waves — though the tide 
was half-way out — spoke to and refreshed 
me. After a while I knocked again, for my 
horse was becoming hungry ; and a good 
while after that again, a voice came through 
the key-hole, 


206 


LORNA DOONE. 


“ Who is that wishes to enter ?” 

“The boy who was at the pump,” said I, 
“ when the carriage broke down at Dulver- 
ton. The boy that lives at Oh — ah; and 
some day you would come seek for him.” 

“ Oh yes, I remember, certainly. My lee- 
tle boy with the fair white skin. I have de- 
sired to see him, oh, many, yes, many times.” 

She was opening the door while saying 
this, and then she started back in affright 
that the little boy should have grown so. 

“ You can not be that leetle boy. It is 
quite impossible. Why do you impose on 
me ?” 

“ Not only am I that little boy who made 
the water to flow for you till the nebule 
came upon the glass, but also I am come to 
tell you all about your little girl.” 

“ Come in, you very great leetle boy,” she 
answered, with her dark eyes brightened. 
And I went in, and looked at her. She was 
altered by time as much as I was. The 
slight and graceful shape was gone; not 
that I remembered any thing of her figure, 
if you please, for boys of twelve are not yet 
prone to note the shapes of women, but that 
her lithe straight gait had struck me as be- 
ing so unlike our people. Now her time for 
walking so was past, and transmitted to her 
children. Yet her face was comely still, and 
full of strong intelligence. I gazed at her, 
and she at me ; and we were sure of one an- 
other. 

“ Now what will ye please to eat ?” she 
asked, with a lively glance at the size of my 
mouth : “ that is always the first thing you 
people ask in these barbarous places.” 

“ I will tell you by-and-by,” I answered, 
misliking this satire upon us : “ but I might 
begin with a quart of ale, to enable me to 
speak, madam.” 

“ Very well. One quevart of be-or :” she 
called out to a little maid, who was her eld- 
est child, no doubt. “ It is to be expected, 
sir. Be-or, be-or, be-or, all day long, with 
you Englishmen !” 

“Nay,” I replied; “not all day long, if 
madam will excuse me. Only a pint at 
breakfast -time, and a pint and a half at 
eleven o’clock, and a quart or so at dinner. 
And then no more till the afternoon ; and 
half a gallon at supper-time. No one can 
object to that.” 

“Well, I suppose it is right,” she said, 
with an air of resignation : “ God knows. 
But I do not understand it. It is 1 good 
for business,’ as you say, to preclude every 
thing.” 

“And it is good for us, madam,” I answer- 
ed with indignation, for beer is my favorite 
beverage : “ and I am a credit to beer, mad- 
am ; and so are all who trust to it.” 

“At any rate you are, young man. If 
beer has made you grow so large, I will put 
my children upon it ; it is too late for me to 
begin. The smell to me is hateful.” 


Now I only set down that to show how 
perverse those foreign people are. They 
will drink their wretched, heartless stuff, 
such as they call claret, or wine 0:1 Medoc, or 
Bordeaux, or what not, with no more mean- 
ing than sour rennet, stirred with the pulp 
from the cider-press, and strained through 
the cap of our Betty. This is very well for 
them, and as good as they deserve, no doubt, 
and meant perhaps by the will of God for 
those unhappy natives. But to bring it over 
to England and set it against our home- 
brewed ale (not to speak of wines from Port- 
ugal), and sell it at ten times the price, as a 
cure for British bile, and a great enlighten- 
ment, this, I say, is the vilest feature of the 
age we live in. 

Madam Beuita Odam — for the name of 
the man who turned the wheel proved to be 
John Odam — showed me into a little room 
containing two chairs and a fir-wood table, 
and sat down on a three-legged seat and 
studied me very steadfastly. This she had 
a right to do ; and I, having all my clothes 
on now, was not disconcerted. It would not 
become me to repeat her judgment upon my 
appearance, which she delivered as calmly 
as if I were a pig at market, and as proudly 
as if her own pig. And she asked me wheth- 
er I had ever got rid of the black marks on 
my breast. 

Not wanting to talk about myself (though 
very fond of doing so, when time and season 
favor), I led her back to that fearful night 
of the day when first I had seen her. She 
was not desirous to speak of it, because of 
her own little children : however, I drew her 
gradually to recollection of Lorna, and then 
of the little boy who died, and the poor 
mother buried with him. And her strong, 
hot nature kindled, as she dwelt upon 
these things ; and my wrath waxed within 
me; and we forgot reserve and prudence 
under the sense of so vile a wrong. She 
told me (as nearly as might be) the very 
same story which she had told to Master 
Jeremy Stickles; only she dwelt upon it 
more, because of my knowing the outset. 
And being a woman, with an inkling of my 
situation, she enlarged upon the little maid, 
more than to dry Jeremy. 

“Would you know her again?” I asked, 
being stirred by these accounts of Lorna 
when she was five years old: “would you 
know her as a full-grown maiden ?” 

“ I think I should,” she answered ; “ it is 
not possible to say until one sees the per- 
son : but from the eyes of the little girl, I 
thiuk that I must know her. Oh, the poor 
young creature ! Is it to be believed that 
the cannibals devoured her ! What a people 
you are in this country ! Meat, meat, meat !” 

As she raised her hands and eyes in hor- 
ror at our carnivorous propensities, to which 
she clearly attributed the disappearance of 
Lorna, I could scarce help laughing, even af- 


LORNA DOONE. 


207 


ter that sad story. For though it is said at 
the present day, and will doubtless he said 
hereafter that the Doones had devoured a 
baby once, as they came up Horlock hill, af- 
ter fighting hard in the market-place, I knew 
that the tale was utterly false ; for, cruel 
and brutal as they were, their taste was very 
correct and choice, and indeed one might 
say fastidious. Nevertheless, I could not 
stop to argue that matter with her. 

u The little maid has not been devoured,” 
I said to Mistress Odam : “ and now she is a 
tall young lady, and as beautiful as can be. 
If I sleep in your good hostel to-night, after 
going to Watch ett town, will you come with 
me to Oare to-morrow, and see your little 
maiden ?” 

“I would like — and yet I fear. This 
country is so barbarous. And I am good to 
eat — my God, there is much picking on my 
bones !” 

She surveyed herself with a glance so 
mingled of pity and admiration, and the 
truth of her words was so apparent (only 
that it would have taken a week to get at 
the bones before picking), that I nearly lost 
good manners ; for she really seemed to sus- 
pect even me of cannibal inclinations. How- 
ever, at last I made her promise to come 
with me on the morrow, presuming that 
Master Odam could by any means be per- 
suaded to keep her company in the cart, as 
propriety demanded. Having little doubt 
that Master Odam was entirely at his wife’s 
command, I looked upon that matter as set- 
tled, and set off for Watchett, to see the 
grave of Lorna’s poor mother, and to hire a 
cart for the morrow. 

And here (as so often happens with men) 
I succeeded without any trouble or hinder- 
ance, where I had looked for both of them, 
namely, in finding a suitable cart ; whereas 
the other matter, in which I could have ex- 
pected no difficulty, came very near to de- 
feat me. For when I heard that Lorna’s fa- 
ther was the Earl of Dugal — as Benita im- 
pressed upon me with a strong enforcement, 
as much as to say, “Who are you, young 
man, to come even asking about her?”—* 
then I never thought but that every body in 
Watchett town must know all about the 
tombstone of the Countess of Dugal. 

This, however, proved otherwise. For 
Lord Dugal had never lived at Watchett 
Grange, as their place was called, neither 
had his name become familiar as its owner. 
Because the Grange had only devolved to 
him by will, at the end of a long entail, 
when the last of the Fitz-Pains died out; 
and though he liked the idea of it, he had 
gone abroad without taking seisin. And 
upon news of his death, John Jones, a rich 
gentleman from Landaff, had taken posses- 
sion, as next of right, and hushed up all the 
story. And though, even at the worst of 
times, a lady of high rank and wealth could 


not be robbed, and as bad as murdered, and 
then buried in a little place, without moving 
some excitement, yet it had been given out, 
on purpose and with diligence, that this was 
only a foreign lady traveling for her health 
and pleasure along the sea-coast of England. 
And as the poor thing never spoke, and sev- 
eral of her servants and her baggage looked 
so foreign, and she herself died in a collar of 
lace unlike any made in England, all Watch- 
ett, without hesitation, pronounced her to be 
a foreigner. And the English serving-man 
and maid, who might have cleared up every 
thing, either were bribed by Master Jones,, 
or else decamped of their own accord with 
the relics of the baggage. So the poor 
Countess of Dugal, almost in sight of her 
own grand house, was buried in an un- 
known grave, with her pair of infants, with' 
out a plate, without a tombstone (worse 
than all), without a tear, except from the 
hired Italian woman. Surely my poor Lor- 
na came of an ill-starred family. 

Now, in spite of all this, if I had only 
taken Benita with me, or even told her what 
I wished, and craved her directions, there 
could have been no trouble. But I do as- 
sure you that among the stupid people at 
Watchett (compared with whom our folk of 
Oare, exceeding dense though being, are as 
Hamlet against Dogberry), what with one 
of them and another, and the firm conviction 
of all the town that I could be come only to 
wrestle, I do assure you (as I said before) 
that my wits almost went out of me. And 
what vexed me yet more about it was, that 
I saw my own mistake in coming myself to 
seek out the matter, instead of sending some 
unknown person. For my face and form 
were known at that time (and still are so) 
to nine people out of every ten living in forty 
miles of me. Not through any excellence, 
or any thing of good desert in either the one 
or the other, but simply because folks will 
be fools on the rivalry of wrestling. The 
art is a fine one in itself, and demands a lit- 
tle wit of brain, as well as strength of body : 
it binds the man who studies it to temper- 
ance and chastity, to self-respect, and most 
of all to an even and sweet temper ; for I 
have thrown stronger men than myself (when 
I was a mere sapling, and before my strength 
grew hard on me) through their loss of tem- 
per. But though the art is an honest one, 
surely they who excel therein have a right 
(like all the rest of mankind) to their own 
private life. 

Be that either way — and I will not speak 
too strongly, for fear of indulging my own an- 
noyance — anyhow, all Watchett town cared 
ten times as much to see John Ridd as to 
show him what he wanted. I was led to 
every public-house, instead of to the church- 
yard ; and twenty tables were ready for me, 
in lieu of a single grave-stone. “Zummer- 
zett thou bee’st, Jan Ridd, and Zummerzett 


208 


LORNA DOONE. 


thou shalt he. Thee carl theezell a Davon- 
sheer man ! Whoy, thee lives in Zummer- 
zett ; and in Zummerzett thee wast barn, 
lad.” And so it went on till I was weary, 
though very much obliged to them. 

Dull and solid as I am, and with a wild 
duck waiting for me at good Mistress Odam’s, 
I saw that there was nothing for it but to 
yield to these good people, and prove me a 
man of Somerset by eating a dinner at their 
expense. As for the church-yard, none would 
hear of it, and I grieved for broaching the 
matter. ' 

But how was I to meet Lorna again, with- 
out having done the thing of all things which 
I had promised to see to ? It would never 
do to tell her that so great was my popular- 
ity, and so strong the desire to feed me, that 
I could not attend to her mother. Least of 
all could I say that every one in Watchett 
knew John Ridd, while none had heard of 
the Countess of Dugal. And yet that was 
about the truth, as I hinted very delicately 
to Mistress Odam that evening. But she 
(being vexed about her wild duck, and not 
having English ideas on the matter of sports, 
and so on) made a poor unwitting face at 
me. Nevertheless Master Odam restored 
me to my self-respect ; for he stared at me 
till I went to bed, and he broke his hose 
with excitement. For, being in the leg-line 
myself, I wanted to know what the muscles 
were of a man who turned a wheel all day. 
I had never seen a tread-mill (though they 
have one now at Exeter), and it touched me 
much to learn whether it were good exercise. 
And herein, from what I saw of Odam, I in- 
cline to think that it does great harm ; as 
moving the muscles too much in a line, and 
without variety. 


CHAPTER LVII. 

LORNA KNOWS HER NURSE. 

Having obtained from Benita Odam a 
very close and full description of the place 
where her poor mistress lay, and the marks 
whereby to know it, I hastened to Watchett 
the following morning before the sun was 
up, or any people were about. And so, with- 
out interruption, I was in the church-yard 
at sunrise. 

In the farthest and darkest nook, over- 
grown with grass, and overhung by a weep- 
ing tree, a little bank of earth betokened 
the rounding off of a hapless life. There 
was nothing to tell of rank or wealth, of 
love, or even pity : nameless as a peasant 
lay the last (as supposed) of a mighty race. 
Only some unskillful hand, probably Master 
Odam’s, under his wife’s teaching, had carved 
a rude L., and a ruder D., upon a large peb- 
ble from the beach, and set it up as a head- 
stone. 


I gathered a little grass for Lorna, and a 
sprig of the weeping tree, and then returned 
to the “ Forest Cat,” as Benita’s lonely inn 
was called. For the way is long from Watch- 
ett to Oare; and though you may ride it 
rapidly, as the Doones had done on that fa- 
tal night, to travel on wheels, with one horse 
only, is a matter of time and of prudence. 
Therefore we set out pretty early, three of 
us, and a baby, who could not well be left 
behind. The wife of the man who owned 
the cart had undertaken to mind the busi- 
ness, and the other babies, upon condition 
of having the keys of all the taps left with 
her. 

As the manner of journeying over the 
moor has been described oft enough already, 
I will say no more, except that we all ar- 
rived, before dusk of the summer’s day, safe 
at Plover’s Barrows. Mistress Benita was 
delighted with the change from her dull, 
hard life ; and she made many excellent ob- 
servations, such as seem natural to a foreign- 
er looking at our country. 

As luck would have it, the first who came 
to meet us at the gate w as Lorna, with noth- 
ing whatever upon her head (the weather 
being summerly) but her beautiful hair shed 
round her, and wearing a sweet white frock 
tucked in, and showing her figure perfectly. 
In her joy she ran straight up to the cart, 
and then stopped and gazed at Benita. At 
one glance her old nurse knew her : “ Oh the 
eyes, the eyes !” she cried, and was over th6 
rail of the cart in a moment, in spite of all 
her substance. Lorna, on the other hand, 
looked at her with some doubt and wonder, 
as though having right to know much about 
her, and yet unable to do so. But when the 
foreign woman said something in Roman 
language, and flung new hay from the cart 
upon her, as if in a romp of childhood, the 
young maid cried, “Oh, Nita, Nita!” and 
fell upon her breast and wept, and after that 
looked round at us. 

This being so, there could be no doubt as 
to the power of proving Lady Lorna’s birth 
and rights, both by evidence and token. 
For though we had not the necklace now — 
thanks to Annie’s wisdom — we had the ring 
of heavy gold, a very ancient relic, with 
which my maid (in her simple way) had 
pledged herself to me. And Benita knew 
this ring as well as she knew her own fin- 
gers, having heard a long history about it ; 
and the effigy on it of the wild cat was the 
bearing of the house of Lome. 

For though Lorna’s father was a noble- 
man of high and goodly lineage, her mother 
was of yet more ancient and renowned de- 
scent, being the last in line direct from the 
great and kingly chiefs of Lome. A wild 
and headstrong race they were, and must- 
have every thing their own way. Hot blood 
was ever among them, even of one houses 
hold; and their sovereignty (which more 


LORNA DOONE. 


209 


than once had defied the King of Scotland) 
waned and fell among themselves by contin- 
ual quarreling. And it was of a piece with 
this, that the Doones (who were an offset by 
the mother’s side, holding in co-partnership 
some large property, which had come by the 
spindle, as we say) should fall out with the 
Earl of Lome, the last but one of that title. 

u The daughter of this nobleman had mar- 
ried Sir Ensor Dooue ; but this, instead of 
healing matters, led to fiercer conflict. I 
never could quite understand all the ins and 
outs of it, which none but a lawyer may go 
through, and keep his head at the end of it. 
The motives of mankind are plainer than 
the motions they produce. Especially when 
charity (such as found among us) sits to 
judge the former, and is never weary of it ; 
while reason does not care to trace the lat- 
ter complications, except for fee or title. 

Therefore it is enough to say that, know- 
ing Lorna to be direct in heirship to vast 
property, and bearing especial spite against 
the house of which she was the last, the 
Doones had brought her up with full inten- 
tion of lawful marriage, and had carefully 
secluded her from the wildest of their young 
gallants. Of course, if they had been next in 
succession, the child would have gone down 
the water- fall, to save any further trouble ; 
but there was an intercepting branch of 
some honest family ; and they being outlaws, 
would have a poor chance (though the law 
loves outlaws) against them. Only Lorna 
was of the stock, and Lorna they must mar- 
ry. And what a triumph against the old 
Earl for a cursed Doone to succeed him ! 

As for their outlawry, great robberies, and 
grand murders, the veriest child nowadays 
must know that money heals the whole of 
that. Even if they had murdered people 
of a good position, it would only cost about 
twice as much to prove their motives loyal. 
But they had never slain any man above the 
rank of yeoman ; and folk even said that 
my father was the highest of their victims ; 
for the death of Lorna’s mother and brother 
was never set to their account. 

Pure pleasure it is to any man to reflect 
upon all these things. How truly we dis- 
cern clear justice, and how well we deal it. 
If any poor man steals a sheep, having ten 
children starving, and regarding it as mount- 
ain game (as a rich man does a hare), to the 
gallows with him. If a man of rank beats 
down a door, smites the owner upon the 
head, and honors the wife with attention, it 
is a thing to be grateful for, and to slouch 
smitten head the lower. 

While we were full of all these things, 
and wondering what would happen next, or 
what we ought ourselves to do, another very 
important matter called for our attention. 
This was no less than Annie’s marriage to 
the Squire Faggus. We had tried to put it 
» off again ; for, in spite of all advantages, 
14 


neither my mother nor myself had any 
real heart for it. Not that we dwelt upon 
Tom’s short-comings, or rather, perhaps, his 
going too far at the time when he worked 
the road so. All that was covered by the 
King’s pardon, and universal respect of the 
neighborhood. But our scruple was this — 
and the more we talked, the more it grew 
upon us — that we both had great misgivings 
as to his future steadiness. 

For it would be a thousand pities, we said, 
for a fine, well -grown, and pretty maiden 
(such as our Annie was), useful too in so 
many ways, and lively, and warm-hearted, 
and mistress of £500, to throw herself away 
on a man with a kind of a turn for drinking. 
If that last were even hinted, Annie would 
be most indignant, and ask, with cheeks as 
red as roses, who had ever seen Master Fag- 
gus any the worse for liquor indeed ? Her 
own opinion was, in truth, that he took a 
great deal too little, after all his hard work, 
and hard riding, and coming over the hills 
to be insulted! And if ever it lay in her 
power, and with no one to grudge him his 
trumpery glass, she would see that poor Tom 
had the nourishment which his cough and 
his lungs required. 

His lungs being quite as sound as mine, 
this matter was out of all argument; so 
mother and I looked at oue another, as 
much as to say, “ Let her go up stairs ; she 
will cry, and come down more reasonable.” 
And while she was gone, we used to say the 
same thing over and over again, but with- 
out perceiving a cure for it. And we al- 
most always finished up with the following 
reflection, which sometimes came from moth- 
er’s lips, and sometimes from my own : “Well, 
well, there is no telling. None can say how 
a man may alter when he takes to matri- 
mony. But if we could only make Annie 
promise to be a little firm with him !” 

I fear that all this talk on our part only 
hurried matters forward, Annie being more 
determined every time we pitied her. And 
at last Tom Faggus came, and spoke as if he 
were on the King’s road, with a pistol at my 
head, and one at mother’s. “No more fast 
and loose,” he cried; “either one thing or 
the other. I love the maid, and she loves 
me; and we will have one another, either 
with your leave, or without it. How many 
more times am I to dance over these vile 
hills, and leave my business, and get noth- 
ing more than a sigh or a kiss, and ‘ Tom, I 
must wait for mother V You are famous 
for being straightforward, you Ridds. Just 
treat me as I would treat you, now.” 

I looked at my mother ; for a glance from 
her would have sent Tom out of the win- 
dow; but she checked me with her hand, 
and said, “You have some ground of com- 
plaint, sir, I will not deny it. Now I will 
be as straightforward with you as even a 
Ridd is supposed to be. My son and my- 


210 


LORNA DOONE. 


self have all along disliked your marriage 
with Annie. Not for what you have been 
so much, as for what we fear you will be. 
Have patience one moment, if you please. 
We do not fear your taking to the highway 
life again ; for that you are too clever, no 
doubt, now that you have property. But 
we fear that you will take to drinking, and 
to squandering money. There are many ex- 
amples of this around us, and we know what 
the fate of the wife is. It has been hard to 
tell you this, under our own roof, and with 
our own — ” Here mother hesitated. 

“ Spirits, and cider, and beer,” I broke in ; 
“ out with it, like a Ridd, mother ; as he will 
have all of it.” 

“ Spirits, and cider, and beer,” said moth- 
er very firmly, after me ; and then she gave 
way and said, “ You know, Tom, you are wel- 
come to every drop, and more of it.” 

Now Tom must have had a far sweet- 
er temper than ever I could claim; for I 
should have thrust my glass away, and nev- 
er taken another drop in the house where 
such a check had met me. But instead of 
that, Master Faggus replied, with a pleasant 
smile, 

“ I know that I am welcome, good moth- 
er ; and to prove it, I will have some more.” 

And thereupon he mixed himself another 
glass of hollands with lemon and hot water, 
yet pouring it very delicately. 

“Oh, I have been so miserable — take a 
little more, Tom,” said mother, handing the 
bottle. 

“Yes, take a little more,” I said; “you 
have mixed it overweak, Tom.” 

“ If ever there was a sober man,” cried 
Tom, complying with our request; “if ever 
there was in Christendom a man of perfect 
sobriety, that man is now before you. Shall 
we say to-morrow week, mother ? It will 
suit your washing-day.” 

“How very thoughtful you are, Tom! 
Now John would never have thought of 
that, in spite of all his steadiness.” 

“Certainly not,” I answered, proudly; 
“when my time comes for Lorna, I shall not 
study Betty Muxworthy.” 

In this way the Squire got over us ; and 
Farmer Nicholas Snowe was sent for, to coun- 
sel with mother about the matter, and to set 
his two daughters sewing. 

When the time for the wedding came, 
there was such a stir and commotion as had 
never been known in the parish of Oare since 
my father’s marriage. For Annie’s beauty 
and kindliness had made her the pride of 
the neighborhood, and the presents sent her 
from all around were enough to stock a shop 
with. Master Stickles, who now could walk, 
and who certainly owed his recovery, with 
the blessing of God, to Annie, presented her 
with a mighty Bible, silver-clasped, and very 
handsome, beating the parson’s out and out, 
and for which he had sent to Taunton. Even 


the common troopers, having tasted her cook- 
ery many times (to help out their poor ra- 
tions), clubbed together, and must have given 
at least a week’s pay apiece, to have turned 
out what they did for her. This was no less 
than a silver pot, well designed, but suited 
surely rather to the bridegroom’s taste than 
bride’s. In a word, every body gave her 
things. 

And now my Lorna came to me, with a 
spring of tears in appealing eyes — for she 
was still somewhat childish, or rather, I 
should say, more childish now than when 
she lived in misery — and she placed her lit- 
tle hand in mine, and she was half afraid to 
speak, and dropped her eyes for me to ask. 

“ What is it, little darling ?” I asked, as 1 
saw her breath come fast ; for the smallest 
emotion moved her form. 

“You don’t think, John, you don’t think, 
dear, that you could lend me any money ?” 

“All I have got,” I answered ; “ how much 
do you want, dear heart ?” 

“ I have been calculating ; and I fear that 
I can not do any good with less than ten 
pounds, John.” 

Here she looked up at me with horror at 
the grandeur of the sum, and not knowing 
what I could think of it. But I kept my 
eyes from hers. “ Ten pounds !” I said, in 
my deepest voice, on purpose to have it out 
in comfort, when she should be frighten- 
ed : “ what can you want with ten pounds, 
child?” 

“ That is my concern,” said Lorna, pluck- 
ing up her spirit at this : “ when a lady asks 
for a loan, no gentleman pries into the cause 
of her asking it.” 

“ That may be, as may be,” I answered, in 
a judicial manner : “ ten pounds, or twenty, . 
you shall have. But I must know the pur- 
port.” 

“Then that you never shall know, John. 
I am very sorry for asking you. It is not 
of the smallest consequence. Oh dear, no.” 
Herewith she was running away. 

“ Oh dear, yes,” I replied ; “ it is of very 
great consequence ; and I understand the 
whole of it. You want to give that stupid 
Annie, who has lost you a hundred thou- 
sand pounds, and who is going to be mar- 
ried before us, dear — God only can tell why, 
being my younger sister — you want to give 
her a wedding present. And you shall do 
it, darling, because it is so good of you. 
Don’t you know your title, love? How 
humble yon are with us humble folk. You 
are Lady Lorna something, so far as I can 
make out yet; and you ought not even to 
speak to us. You will go away, and dis- 
dain us.” 

“If you please, talk not like that, John. 
I will have nothing to do with it, if it comes 
between you and me, John.” 

“ You can not help yourself,” said I. And 
then she vowed that she could and would. 


LORNA DOONE. 


211 


And rank and birth were banished from be- 
tween our lips in no time. 

“What can I get her good enough! I 
am sure I do not know,” she asked : “ she 
has been so kind and good to me, and she 
is such a darling. How I shall miss her, 
to be sure ! By-tlie-bye, you seem to think, 
John, that I shall be rich some day.” 

“ Of course you will. As rich as the 
French King who keeps ours. Would the 
Lord Chancellor trouble himself about you, 
if you were poor ?” 

“ Then if I am rich, perhaps you would 
lend me twenty pounds, dear John. Ten 
pounds would be very mean for a wealthy 
person to give her.” 

To this I agreed, upon condition that I 
should make the purchase myself, whatev- 
er it might be — for nothing could be easier 
than to cheat Lorna about the cost — until 
time should come for her paying me. And 
this was better than to cheat her for the 
benefit of our family. For this end, and for 
many others, I set off to Dulvertou, bearing 
more commissions, more messages, and more 
questions, than a man of thrice my memory 
might carry so far as the corner where the 
saw-pit is. And to make things worse, one 
girl or other would keep on running up to 
me, or even after me (when started), with 
something or other she had just thought of, 
which she could not possibly do without, 
and which I must be sure to remember, as 
the most important of the whole. 

To my dear mother, who had partly out- 
lived the exceeding value of trifles, the most 
important matter seemed to insure Uncle 
Reuben’s countenance and presence at the 
marriage. And if I succeeded in this, I 
might well forget all the maidens’ trump- 
ery. This she would have been wiser to 
tell me when they were out of hearing, for 
I left her to fight her own battle with them ; 
and laughing at her predicament, promised 
to do the best I could for all, so far as my 
wits would go. 

Uncle Reuben was not at home ; but Ruth, 
who received me very kindly, although with- 
out any expressions of joy, was sure of his 
return in the afternoon, and persuaded me 
to wait for him. And by the time that I 
had finished all I could recollect of my or- 
ders, even with paper to help me, the old 
gentleman rode into the yard, and was more 
surprised than pleased to see me. But if he 
was surprised, I was more than that — I was 
utterly astonished at the change in his ap- 
pearance since the last time I had seen him. 
From a hale, and rather heavy man, gray- 
haired, but plump and ruddy, he was al- 
tered to a shrunken, wizened, trembling, 
and almost decrepit figure. Instead of curly 
and comely locks, grizzled indeed, but plen- 
tiful, he had only a few lank white hairs 
scattered and flattened upon his forehead. 
But the greatest change of all was in the 


expression of his eyes, which had been so 
keen, and restless, and bright, and a little 
sarcastic. Bright indeed they still were, 
but with a slow, unhealthy lustre ; their 
keenness was turned to perpetual outlook, 
their restlessness to a haggard want. As 
for the humor which once gleamed there 
(which people who fear it call sarcasm), it 
had been succeeded by stares of terror, and 
then mistrust and shrinking. There was 
none of the interest in mankind which is 
needful even for satire. 

“Now what can this be?” thought I to 
myself : “ has the old man lost all his prop- 
erty, or taken too much to strong waters ?” 

“Come inside, John Ridd,” he said: “I 
will have a talk with you. It is cold out 
here, and it is too light. Come inside, John 
Ridd, boy.” 

I followed him into a little dark room, 
quite different from Ruth Huckaback’s. It 
was closed from the shop by an old division 
of boarding, hung with tanned canvas; and 
the smell was very close and faint. Htfre 
there was a ledger -desk, and a couple of 
chairs, and a long-legged stool. 

“Take the stool,” said Uncle Reuben, 
showing me in very quietly, “it is fitter for 
your height, John. Wait a moment; there 
is no hurry.” 

Then he slipped out by another door, and 
closing it quickly after him, told the fore- 
man and waiting-men that the business of 
the day was done. They had better all go 
home at once, and he would see to the fast- 
enings. Of course they were only too glad 
to go ; but I wondered at his sending them, 
with at least two hours of daylight left. 

However, that was no business of mine, 
and I waited and pondered whether fair 
Ruth ever came into this dirty room, and 
if so, how she kept her hands from it. For 
Annie would have had it upside down in 
about two minutes, and scrubbed, and brush- 
ed, and dusted, until it looked quite another 
place ; and yet all this done without scold- 
ing and crossness, which are the curse of 
clean women, and ten times worse than the 
dustiest dust. 

Uncle Ben came reeling in, not from any 
power of liquor, but because he was stiff 
from horseback, and weak from work and 
worry. 

“ Let me be, John, let me be,” he said, as 
I went to help him : “ this is an unked dreary 
place; but many a hundred of good gold 
Carolus has been turned in this place, John.” 

“Not a doubt about it, sir,” I answered, in 
my loud and cheerful manner; “and many 
another hundred, sir ; and may you long en- 
joy them !” 

“ My boy, do you wish me to die ?” he ask- 
ed, coming up close to my stool, and regard- 
ing me with a shrewd though blear-eyed 
gaze ; “ many do. Do you, John ?” 

“ Come,” said I, “don’t ask such nonsense. 


212 


LORNA DOONE. 


You know better than that, Uncle Ben. Or 
else I am sorry for you. I want you to live 
as long as possible, for the sake of — ” Here 
I stopped. 

“ For the sake of what, John ? I know it 
is not for my own sake. For the sake of 
what, my boy ?” 

“ For the sake of Ruth,” I answered ; “ if 
you must have all the truth. Who is to 
mind her when you are gone ?” 

“But if you knew that I had gold, or a 
manner of getting gold far more than ever 
the sailors got out of the Spanish galleons — 
far more than ever was heard of; and the 
secret was to be yours, John ; yours after 
me, and no other soul’s — then you would 
wish me dead, John.” Here he eyed me as 
if a speck of dust in my eyes should not es- 
cape him. 

“You are wrong, Uncle Ben; altogether 
wrong. For all the gold ever heard or dream- 
ed of, not a wish would cross my heart to rob 
you of one day of life.” 

*At last he moved his eyes from mine, but 
without any word or sign to show whether 
he believed or disbelieved. Then he went 
to a chair, and sat with his chin upon the 
ledger-desk; as if the effort of probing me 
had been too much for his weary brain. 
“Dreamed of! All the gold ever dreamed 
of! As if it were but a dream!” he mutter- 
ed : and then he closed his eyes, to think. 

“ Good Uncle Reuben,” I said to him, “ you 
have been a long way to-day, sir. Let me 
go and get you a glass of good wine. Cous- 
in Ruth knows where to find it.” 

“ How do you know how far I have been?” 
he asked, with a vicious look at me. “And 
Cousin Ruth ! You are very pat with my 
granddaughter’s name, young man !” 

“ It would be hard upon me, sir, not to 
know my own cousin’s name.” 

“Very well. Let that go by. You have 
behaved very badly to Ruth. She loves you, 
and you love her not.” 

At this I was so wholly amazed — not at 
the thing itself, I mean, but at his knowledge 
of it — that I could not say a single word, 
but looked, no doubt, very foolish. 

“ You may well be ashamed, young man,” 
he cried, with some triumph over me ; “ you 
are the biggest of all fools, as well as a con- 
ceited coxcomb. What can you want more 
than Ruth ? She is a little damsel truly : but 
finer men than you, John Ridd, with all your 
boasted strength and wrestling, have wedded 
smaller maidens. And as for quality and 
value — bots ! one inch of Ruth is worth all 
your seven feet put together. 

Now I am not seven feet high, nor ever 
was six feet eight inches, in my very prime 
of life ; and nothing vexes me so much as to 
make me out a giant, and above human sym- 
pathy, and human scale of weakness. It 
cost me hard to hold my tongue, which, luck- 
ily, is not in proportion to my stature. And 


only for Ruth’s sake I held it. But Uncle 
Ben (being old and worn) was vexed by not 
having any answer, almost as much as a 
woman is. 

“ You want me to go on,” he continued, 
with a look of spite at me, “ about my poor 
Ruth’s love for you, to feed your cursed van- 
ity. Because a set of asses call you the 
finest man in England, there is no maid (I 
suppose) who is not in love with you. I be- 
lieve you are as deep as you are long, John 
Ridd. Shall I ever get to the bottom of your 
character ?” 

This was a little too much for me. Any 
insult I could take (with good-will) from a 
white-haired man, and one who was my rel- 
ative, unless it touched my love for Lorna, 
or my conscious modesty. Now both of 
these were touched to the quick by the sen- 
tences of the old gentleman. Therefore, 
without a word, I went ; only making a bow 
to him. 

But women, who are (beyond all doubt) 
the mothers of all mischief, also nurse that 
babe to sleep when he is too noisy. And 
there was Ruth, as I took my horse (with a 
trunk of frippery on him), poor little Ruth 
was at the bridle, and rusting all the knops 
of our town-going harness with tears. 

“ Good-bye, dear,” I said, as she bent her 
head away from me ; “ shall I put you up on 
the saddle, dear ?” 

“ Cousiu Ridd, you may take it lightly,” 
said Ruth, turning fall upon me, “ and very 
likely you are right, according to your na- 
ture” — this was the only cutting thing the 
little soul ever said to me — “ but oh, Cousiu 
Ridd, you have no idea of the pain you will 
leave behind you.” 

“ How can that be so, Ruth, when I am as 
good as ordered to be off the premises ?” 

“In the first place, Cousin Ridd, grand- 
father will be angry with himself for having 
so ill-used you. And now he is so weak and 
poorly, that he is always repenting. In the - 
next place, I shall scold him first, until he 
admits his sorrow; and when he has ad- 
mitted it, I shall scold myself for scolding 
him. And then he will come round again, 
and think that I was hard on him, and end 
perhaps by hating you — for he is like a 
woman now, John.” 

That last little touch of self-knowledge in 
Ruth, which she delivered with a gleam of 
some secret pleasantry, made me stop and 
look closely at her, but she pretended not to 
know it. “ There is something in this child,” 
I thought, “ very differeut from other girls. 
What it is I can not tell ; for one very sel- 
dom gets at it.” 

At any rate, the upshot was that the good 
horse went back to stable and had another 
feed of corn, while my wrath sank within 
me. There are two things, according to my 
experience (which may not hold with an- 
other man), fitted beyond any others to take 


LORNA DOONE. 


213 


hot tempers out of us. The first is to see 
our favorite creatures feeding, and licking- 
up their food, and happily snuffling over it, 
yet sparing time to he grateful, and showing 
taste and perception ; the other is to go gar- 
dening boldly in the spring of the year with- 
out any misgiving about it, and hoping the 
utmost of every thing. If there be a third 
anodyne, approaching these two in power, 
it is to smoke good tobacco well, and watch 
the setting of the moon ; and if this should 
only be over the sea, the result is irresistible. 

Master Huckaback showed no especial 
signs of joy at my return, but received me 
with a little grunt, which appeared to me 
to mean, “Ah, I thought he would hardly 
be fool enough to go.” I told him how sor- 
ry I was for having in some way offended 
him ; and he answered that I did well to 
grieve for one at least of my offenses. To 
this I made no reply, as behooves a man 
dealing with cross and fractious people : and 
presently he became better - tempered, and 
sent little Ruth for a bottle of wine. She 
gave me a beautiful smile of thanks for my 
forbearance as she passed, and I knew by 
her manner that she would bring the best 
bottle in all the cellar. 

As I had but little time to spare (although 
the days were long and light), we were 
forced to take our wine with promptitude 
and rapidity; and whether this loosened my 
uncle’s tongue, or whether he meant before- 
hand to speak, is now almost uncertain. 
But true it is that he brought his chair very 
near to mine, after three or four glasses, and 
sent Ruth away upon some errand which 
seemed of small importance. At this I was 
vexed : for the room always looked so differ- 
ent without her. 

“ Come, Jack,” he said, “ here’s your health, 
young fellow, and a good and obedient wife 
to you. Not that your wife will ever obey 
you, though ; you are much too easy temper- 
ed. Even a bitter and stormy woman might 
live in peace with you, Jack. But never 
you give her the chance to try. Marry some 
sweet little thing, if you can. If not, don’t 
marry any. Ah ! we have the maid to suit 
you, my lad, in this old town of Dulverton.” 

“Have you so, sir? But perhaps the 
maid might have no desire to suit me.” 

“That you may take my word she has. 
The color of this wine will prove it. The 
sly little hussy has been to the cobwebbed 
arch of the cellar, where she has no right to 
go for any one under a magistrate. How- 
ever, I am glad to see it; and we will not 
spare it, John. After my time, somebody, 
whoever marries little Ruth, will find some 
rare wine there, I trow, and perhaps not 
know the difference.” 

Thinking of this, the old man sighed, and 
expected me to sigh after him. But a sigh 
is not (like a yawn) infectious ;. and we are 
all more prone to be sent to sleep than to 


sorrow by one another. Not but what a sigh 
sometimes may make us think of sighing. 

“Well, sir,” cried I, in my sprigbtliest 
manner, which rouses up most people, “here’s 
to your health and dear little Ruth’s ; and 
may you live to knock off the cobwebs from 
every bottle in under the arch. Uncle Reu- 
ben, your life, and health, sir !” 

With that I took my glass thoughtfully, 
for it was wondrous good ; and Uncle Ben 
was pleased to see me dwelling pleasantly 
on the subject, with parenthesis, and self- 
commune, and oral judgment unpronounced, 
though smacking of fine decision. “Curia 
vult advisari,” as the lawyers say; which 
means, “ Let us have another glass, and then 
we can think about it.” 

“Come now, John,” said Uncle Ben, lay- 
ing his wrinkled hand on my knee, when he 
saw that none could heed us, “ I know that 
you have a sneaking fondness for my grand- 
child Ruth. Don’t interrupt me now ; you 
have ; and to deny it will only provoke me.” 

“ I do like Ruth, sir,” I said boldly, for 
fear of misunderstanding; “but I do not 
love her.” 

“Very well; that makes no difference. 
Liking may very soon be loving (as some 
people call it), when the maid has money to 
help her.” 

“ But if there be, as there is in my case — ” 

“Once for all, John, not a word. I do 
not attempt to lead you into any engage- 
ment with little Ruth, neither will I blame 
you (though I may be disappointed) if no 
such engagement should ever be. But 
whether you will have my grandchild, or 
whether you will not — and such a chance 
is rarely offered to a fellow of your stand- 
ing ” — Uncle Ben despised all farmers — “ in 
any case I have at last resolved to let you 
know my secret, and for two good reasons. 
The first is that it wears me out to dwell 
upon it all alone, and the second is that I 
can trust you to fulfill a promise. More- 
over, yon are my next of kin, except among 
the womankind ; and you are just the man I 
want to help me in my enterprise.” 

“And I will help you, sir,” I answered, 
fearing some conspiracy, “ in any thing that 
is true, and, loyal, and according to the laws 
of the realm.” 

“Ha, ha!” cried the old man, laughing 
until his eyes ran over, and spreading out 
his skinny hands upon his shining breeches, 
“thou hast gone the same fools’ track as 
the rest ; even as spy Stickles went, and all 
precious troopers. Landing of arms at 
Glenthorne and Lynmouth, wagons escort- 
ed across the moor, sounds of metal, and 
booming noises! Ah! but we managed it 
cleverly, to cheat even those so near to us. 
Disaffection at Taunton, signs of insurrec- 
tion at Dulverton, revolutionary tanner at 
Dunster! We set it all abroad, right well. 
And not even you to suspect our work. 


214 


LORNA DOONE. 


though we thought at oue time that you 
watched us. Now who, do you suppose, is 
at the bottom of all this Exmoor iusur- 
geucy, all this Western rebellion — not that 
I say there is none, mind — but who is at 
the bottom of it f” 

“Either Mother Melldrum,” said I, being 
now a little angry, “ or else old Nick him- 
self.” 

“ Nay, old Uncle Reuben ?” Saying this, 
Master Huckaback cast back his coat and 
stood up, and made the most of himself. 

“Well!” cried I, being now quite come to 
the limits of my intellect, “ then after all, 
Captain Stickles was right in calling you a 
rebel, sir !” 

“ Of course he was : could so keen a man 
be wrong about an old fool like me ? But 
come and see our rebellion, John. I will 
trust you now with every thing. I will 
take no oath from you, only your word 
to keep silence ; and most of all from your 
mother.” 

“I will give you my word,” I said, al- 
though liking not such pledges ; which make 
a man think before he speaks in ordinary 
company, against his usual practice. How- 
ever, I was now so curious, that I thought 
of nothing else; and scarcely could believe 
at all that Uncle Ben was quite right in his 
head. 

“ Take another glass of wine, my son,” he 
cried, with a cheerful countenance, which 
made him look more than ten years young- 
er ; “ you shall come into partnership with 
me ; your strength will save us two horses, 
and we always fear the horse- work. Come 
and see our rebellion, my boy; you are a 
made man from to-night.” 

“ But where am I to come and see it ? 
Where am I to find it, sir ?” 

“ Meet me,” he answered, yet closing his 
hands, and wrinkling with doubt his fore- 
head ; “ come alone, of course, and meet me 
at the Wizard’s Slough at ten to-morrow 
morning.” 


CHAPTER LYIII. 

MASTER HUCKABACK’S SECRET. 

Knowing Master Huckaback to be a man 
of his word, as well as one who would have 
others so, I was careful to be in good time 
the next morning by the side of the Wiz- 
ard’s Slough. I am free to admit that the 
name of the place bore a feeling of uneasi- 
ness, and a love of distance, in some measure, 
to my heart. But I did my best not to think 
of this : only I thought it a wise precaution, 
and due, for the sake of my mother and 
Lorua, to load my gun with a dozen slugs 
made from the lead of the old church-porch, 
laid by, long since, against witchcraft. 

I am well aware that some people now 
begin to doubt about witchcraft ; or at any 


rate feign to do so, being desirous to disbe- 
lieve whatever they are afraid of. This 
spirit is growing too common among us, and 
will end (unless we put a stop to it) in the 
destruction of all religion. And as regards 
witchcraft, a man is bound either to believe 
in it, or to disbelieve the Bible. For even in 
the New Testament, discarding many things 
of the Old, such as sacrifices, and sabbath, 
and fasting, and other miseries, witchcraft is 
clearly spoken of as a thing that must con- 
tinue, that the Evil Oue be not utterly rob- 
bed of his vested interests. Hence let no 
one tell me that witchcraft is done away 
with; for I will meet him with St. Paul, 
than whom no better man, and few less su- 
perstitious, can be found in all the Bible. 

Feeling these things more in those days 
than I feel them now, I fetched a goodish 
compass round by the way of the Cloven 
rocks, rather than cross Black Barrow Down 
in a reckless and unholy manner. There 
were several spots upon that Down cursed, 
and smitten, and blasted, as if thunder-bolts 
had fallen there, and Satan sat to keep them 
warm. At any rate, it was good (as every 
one acknowledged) not to wander there too 
much, even with a doctor of divinity upon 
one arm, and of medicine upon the other. 

Therefore I, being all alone, aud on foot 
(as seemed the wisest), preferred a course 
of roundabout ; and starting about eight 
o’clock, without mentioning my business, 
arrived at the mouth of the deep descent, 
such as John Fry described it. Now this 
(though I have not spoken of it) was not 
my first time of being there. For although 
I could not bring myself to spy upon Uncle 
Reuben as John Fry had done, yet I thought 
it no ill manners, after he had left our house, 
to have a look at the famous place where 
the malefactor came to life, at least in John’s 
opinion. At that time, however, I saw noth- 
ing except the great ugly black morass with 
the grizzly reeds around it ; and I did not 
care to go very near it, much less to pry on 
the farther side. 

Now, on the other hand, I was bent to get 
at the very bottom of this mystery (if there 
were any), having less fear of witch or wiz- 
ard, with a man of Uncle Reuben’s wealth 
to take my part, and see me through. So I 
rattled the ramrod down my gun, just to 
know if the charge were right, after so much 
walking ; and finding it full six inches deep, 
as I like to have it, went boldly down the 
steep gorge of rock with a firm resolve to 
shoot any witch, unless it were good Mother 
Melldrum. Nevertheless, to my surprise, all 
was quiet, and fair to look at, in the decline 
of the narrow way, with great stalked ferns 
coming forth like trees, yet hanging like cob- 
webs over one. And along one side a little 
spring was getting rid of its waters. Any 
man might stop and thiuk, or he might go 
on and think ; aud in either case, there was 


LORNA 

none to say that he was making a fool of 
himself. 

When I came to the foot of this ravine, 
and over against the great black slough, 
there was no sign of Master Huckaback, nor 

• of any other living man, except myself, in 
the silence. Therefore I sat in a niche of 
rock, gazing at the slough, and pondering 
the old tradition about it. 

They say that, in the ancient times, a 
mighty necromancer lived in the wilderness 

• of Exmoor. Here, by spell and incantation, 
he built himself a strong, high palace, eight- 
sided like a spider’s web, and standing on a 
central steep ; so that neither man nor beast 
could cross the moor without his knowledge. 
If he wished to rob and slay a traveler, or to 
have wild ox or stag for food, he had noth- 
ing more to do than sit at one of his eight 
windows, and point his unholy book at him. 
Any moving creature at which that book 
was pointed must obey the call, and come 
from whatever distance, if sighted once by 
the wizard. 

This was a bad condition of things, and 
all the country groaned under it ; and Ex- 
moor (although the most honest place that 
a man could wish to live in) was beginning 
to get a bad reputation, and all through that 
vile wizard. No man durst even go to steal 
a sheep or a pony, or so much as a deer for 
dinner, lest he should be brought to book by 
a far bigger rogue than he was. And this 
went on for many years, though they prayed 
to God to abate it. But at last, when the 
wizard was getting fat and haughty upon 
his high stomach, a mighty deliverance came 
to Exmoor, and a warning, and a memory. 
For one day the sorcerer gazed from his 
window facing the south-east of the com- 
pass ; and he yawned, having killed so many 
men, that now he was weary of it. 

“’Ifackins,” he cried, or some such oath, 
both profane and uncomely, “ I see a man on 
the verge of the sky-line going along labori- 
ously. A pilgrim, I trow, or some such fool, 
with the nails of his boots inside them. Too 
thin to be worth eating, but I will have him 
for the fun of the thing ; and most of those 
saints have got money.” 

With these words, he stretched forth his 
legs on a stool, and pointed the book of hea- 
thenish spells back upward at the pilgrim. 
Now this good pilgrim was plodding along 
soberly and religiously, with a pound of flints 
in either boot, and not an ounce of meat in- 
side him. He felt the spell of the wicked 
book, but only as a horse might feel a “ gee- 
wug !” addressed to him. It was in the pow- 
er of this good man either to go on or turn 
aside, and see out the wizard’s meaning. 
And for a moment he halted and stood, like 
one in two minds about a thing. Then the 
wizard clapped one cover to, in a jocular 
and insulting manner ; and the sound of 
it came to the pilgrim’s ear, about five 


DOONE. 215 

miles in the distance, like a great gun fired 
at him. 

u By our Lady,” he cried, “ I must see to 
this, although my poor feet have no skin be- 
low them. I will teach this heathen mis- 
creant how to scoff at Glastonbury.” 

Thereupon he turned his course, and plow- 
ed along through the moors and bogs toward 
the eight-sided palace. The wizard sat on 
his chair of comfort, and with the rankest 
contempt observed the holy man plowing 
toward him. “He has something good in 
his wallet, I trow,” said the black thief to 
himself; “these fellows get always the pick 
of the wine, and the best of a woman’s mon- 
ey.” Then he cried, “ Come in, come in, 
good sir,” as he always did to every one. 

“ Bad sir, I will not come in,” said the 
pilgrim ; “ neither shall you come out again. 
Here are the bones of all you have slain, and 
here shall your own bones be.” 

“ Hurry me not,” cried the sorcerer ; “ that 
is a thing to think about. How many miles 
hast thou traveled this day ?” 

But the pilgrim was too wide awake ; for 
if he had spoken of any number bearing no 
cross upon it, the necromancer would have 
had him like a ball at bando-play. There- 
fore he answered, as truly as need be, “ By 
the grace of our Lady, nine.” 

Now nine is the crossest of all cross num- 
bers, and full to the lip of all crotchets. So 
the wizard staggered back, and thought, and 
inquired again with bravery, “Where can 
you find a man and wife, one going up hill, 
and one going down, and not a word spoken 
between them ?” 

“In a cucumber-plant,” said the modest 
saint, blushing even to think of it ; and the 
wizard knew he was done for. 

“You have tried me with ungodly ques- 
tions,” continued the honest pilgrim, with 
one hand still over his eyes, as he thought 
of the feminine cucumber ; “ and now I will 
ask you a pure one. To whom of mankind 
have you ever done good since God saw fit 
to make you ?” 

The wizard thought, but could quote no 
one; and he looked at the saint, aud the 
saint at him, and both their hearts were 
trembling. “ Can you mention only one ?” 
asked the saint, pointing a piece of the true 
cross at him, hoping he might cling to it : 
“even a little child will do: try to think 
of some one.” 

The earth was rocking beneath their 
feet, and the palace windows darkened on 
them with a tint of blood ; for now the 
saint was come inside, hoping to save the 
wizard. 

“ If I must tell the pure truth,” said the 
wizard, looking up at the arches of his win- 
dows, “ I can tell of only one to whom I ever 
have done good.” 

“ One will do : one is quite enough : be 
quick before the ground opens. The name 


216 


LORNA DOONE. 


of one, and this cross will save you. Lay 
your thumb on the end of it.” 

“ Nay, that I cau uot do, great saint. The 
devil have mercy upon me !” 

All this while the palace was sinking, and 
blackness coming over them. 

“ Thou hast all but done for thyself,” said 
the saint, with a glory burning round his 
head, “by that last invocation. Yet give 
us the name of the one, my friend, if one 
there be ; it will save thee, with the cross 
upon thy breast. All is crashing round us ; 
dear brother, who is that one ?” 

“My own self,” cried the wretched wiz- 
ard. 

“Then there is no help for thee.” And 
with that the honest saint went upward, 
and the wizard, and all his palace, and even 
the crag that bore it, sank to the bowels of 
the earth ; and over them was nothing left 
except a black bog fringed with reed, of the 
tint of the wizard’s whiskers. The saint, 
however, was all right, after sleeping off the 
excitement, and he founded a chajjel some 
three miles westward ; and there he lies 
with his holy relic ; and thither in after-ages 
came (as we all come home at last) both my 
Lorna’s Aunt Sabina, and her guardian En- 
sor Doone. 

While yet I dwelt upon this strange sto- 
ry, wondering if it all were true, and why 
such things do not happen now, a man on 
horseback appeared as suddenly as if he had 
risen out of the earth, on the other side of 
the great black slough. At first I was a 
little scared, my mind being in the tune 
for wonders ; but presently the white hair, 
whiter from the blackness of the bog be- 
tween us, showed me that it was Uncle Reu- 
ben come to look for me that way. Then 
I left my chair of rock, and waved my hat 
and shouted to him, and the sound of my 
voice among the crags and lonely corners 
frightened me. 

Old Master Huckaback made no answer, 
but (so far as I could guess) beckoned me to 
come to him. There was just room between 
the fringe of reed and the belt of rock around 
it for a man going very carefully to escape 
that horrible pit-hole. And so I went round 
to the other side, and there found open space 
enough, with stunted bushes, and starveling 
trees, and straggling tufts of rushes. 

“ You fool, you are frightened,” said Un- 
cle Ben, as he looked at my face after shak- 
ing hands : “ I want a young man of stead- 
fast courage, as well as of strength and si- 
lence. And after what I heard of the bat- 
tle at Glen Doone, I thought I might trust 
you for courage.” 

“ So you may,” said I, “ wherever I see 
grmne enemy ; but not where witch and wiz- 
ard be.” 

“ Tush, great fool !” cried Master Huck- 
aback ; “ the only witch or wizard here is 
the one that bewitchetli all men. Now fast- 


en up my horse, John Ridd, and not too near 
the slough, lad. Ah ! we have chosen our 
entrance wisely. Two good horsemen, and 
their horses, coming hither to spy us out, 
are gone mining on their own account (and 
their last account it is) down this good wiz- 
ard’s bog-hole.” 

With these words Uncle Reuben clutched 
the mane of his horse and came down, as a 
man does when his legs are old ; and as I 
myself begin to do at this time of writing. 
I offered a hand, but he was vexed, and 
would have naught to do with it. 

“Now follow me, step for step,” he said, 
when I had tethered his horse to a tree ; 
“ the ground is not death (like the wizard’s 
hole), but many parts are treacherous. I 
know it well by this time.” 

Without any more ado, he led me in and 
out the marshy places to a great round hole- 
or shaft, bratticed up with timber. I nev- 
er had seen the like before, and wondered 
how they could want a well, with so much 
water on every side. Around the mouth 
were a few little heaps of stuff unused to 
the daylight ; and I thought at once of the 
tales I had heard concerning mines in Corn- 
wall, and the silver cup at Combe -Martin, 
sent to the Queen Elizabeth. 

“ We had a tree across it, John,” said Un- 
cle Reuben, smiling grimly at my sudden 
shrink from it : “ but some rogue came spy- 
ing here just as one of our men went up. 
He was frightened half out of his life, I be- 
lieve, and never ventured to come again. 
But we put the blame of that upon you. 
And I see that we were wrong, John.” 
Here he looked at me with keen eyes, though 
weak. 

“You were altogether wrong,” I answer- 
ed. “Am I mean enough to spy upon any 
one dwelling with us ? And more than that, 
Uncle Reuben, it was mean of you to sup- 
pose it.” 

“All ideas are different,” replied the old 
man to my heat, like a little worn-out rill 
running down a smithy; “you with your 
strength, and youth, and all that, are in- 
clined to be romantic. I take things as I 
have known them, going on for seventy 
years. Now will you come and meet the 
wizard, or does your courage fail you ?” 

“My courage must be none,” said I, “if 
I would not go where you go, sir.” 

He said no more, but signed to me to lift 
a heavy wooden corb with an iron loop 
across it, and sunk in a little pit of earth, 
a yard or so from the mouth of the shaft. 
I raised it, and by his direction dropped it 
into the throat of the shaft, where it hung 
and shook from a great cross-beam laid at 
the level of the earth. A very stout thick 
rope was fastened to the handle of the corb, 
and ran across a pulley hanging from the 
centre of the beam, and thence out of sight 
in the nether places. 


LORNA DOONE. 


217 


“ I will first descend,” lie said ; “ your | 
weight is too great for safety. When the 
bucket comes up again, follow me, if your 
heart is good.” 

Then he whistled down, with a quick, 
sharp noise, and a whistle from below re- 
plied ; and he climbed into the vehicle, and 
the rope ran through the pulley, and Uncle 
Ben went merrily down, and was out of sight 
before I had time to think of him. 

Now, being left on the bank like that, and 
in full sight of the goodly heaven, I wrestled 
hard with my flesh and blood about going 
down into the pit-hole. Aud but for the 
pale shame of the thing, that a white-headed 
man should adventure so, aud green youth 
doubt about it, never could I have made 
up my mind ; for I do love air and heaven. 
However, at last up came the bucket ; and 
with a short, sad prayer I went into what- 
ever might happen. 

My teeth would chatter, do all I could ; 
but the strength of my arms was with me ; 
and by them I held on the grimy rope, and 
so eased the foot of the corb, which threat- 
ened to go away fathoms under me. Of 
course I should still have been safe enough, 
being like an egg in an egg-cup, too big to 
care for the bottom ; still I wished that all 
should be done in good order, without ex- 
citement. 

The scoopings of the side grew black, aud 
the patch of sky above more blue, as, with 
many thoughts of Lorna, a long way under- 
ground I sank. Then I was fetched up at 
the bottom with a jerk and rattle ; and but 
for holding by the rope so, must have tum- 
bled over. Two great torches of bale-resin 
showed me all the darkness, one being held 
by Uncle Ben, and the other by a short, 
square man with a face which seemed well 
known to me. 

“ Hail to the world of gold, John Ridd,” 
said Master Huckaback, smiling in the old 
dry manner ; “ bigger coward never came 
down the shaft, now did he, Carfax ?” 

“ They be all alike,” said the short, square 
man, “ fust time as they doos it.” 

“May I go to heaven,” I cried, “ which is 
a thing quite out of sight” — for I always 
have a vein of humor, too small to be follow- 
ed by any one — “if ever again of my own 
accord I go so far away from it!” Uncle 
Ben grinned less at this than at the way I 
knocked my shin in getting out of the buck- 
et ; and as for Master Carfax, he would not 
even deign to smile. And he seemed to look 
upon my entrance as an interloping. 

For my part, I had naught to do, after 
rubbing my bruised leg, except to look about 
me, so far as the dullness of light would 
help. And herein I seemed, like a mouse in 
a trap, able no more than to run to and fro, 
and knock himself, and stare at things. For 
here was a little channel grooved with posts 
on either side of it, and ending with a heap 


of darkness, whence the sight came back 
again ; and there was a scooped place, like 
a funnel, but pouring only to darkness. So 
I waited for somebody to speak first, not 
seeing my way to any thing. 

“ You seem to be disappointed, John,” said 
Uncle Reuben, looking blue by-the light of 
the flambeaux ; “ did you expect to see the 
roof of gold, and the sides of gold, and the 
floor of gold, John Ridd ?” 

“ Ha, ha !” cried Master Carfax ; “ I reckon 
her did ; no doubt her did.” 

“You are wroug,” I replied: “but I did 
expect to see something better than dirt and 
darkness.” 

“ Come on, theu, my lad, and we will show 
you something better. We want your great 
arm on here, for a job that has beaten the 
whole of us.” 

With these words Uncle Ben led the way 
along a narrow passage, roofed with rock 
and floored with slate - colored shale aud 
shingle, and winding in and out, until we 
stopped at a great stone block, or boulder,, 
lying across the floor, aud as large as my 
mother’s best oaken wardrobe. Beside it 
were several sledge-hammers, battered, aud 
some with broken helves. 

“ Thou great villain !” cried Uncle Ben y 
giving the boulder a little kick ; “ I believe 
thy time is come at last. Now, John, give 
us a sample of the things they tell of thee. 
Take the biggest of them sledge-hammers 
and crack this rogue in two for us. We 
have tried at him for a fortnight, and he is 
a nut worth cracking. But we have no man 
who can swing that hammer, though all in 
the mine have handled it.” 

“ I will do my very best,” said I, pulling 
off my coat and waistcoat, as if I were going 
to wrestle; “but I fear he will prove too 
tough for me.” 

“Ay, that her wull,” grunted Master Car- 
fax; “lack’th a Carnishman, and a beg one 
too, not a little charp such as I be. There 
be no man outside Carnwall as can crack 
that boolder.” 

“ Bless my heart,” I answered, “ but I 
know something of you, my friend, or at 
any rate of your family. Well, I have beat- 
en most of your Cornishmen, though not my 
place to talk of it. But mind, if I crack this 
rock for you, I must have some of the gold 
inside it.” 

“ Dost think to see the gold come tum- 
bling out like the kernel of a nut, thou 
zany ?” asked Uncle Reuben, pettishly : 
“ now wilt thou crack it, or wilt thou not ? 
For I believe thou canst do it, though only 
a lad of Somerset.” 

Uncle Reuben showed by saying this, and 
by his glance at Carfax, that he was proud 
of his county, and would be disappointed 
for it, if I failed to crack the boulder. So I 
begged him to stoop his torch a little, that 
I might examine my subject. To me there 


218 


LORNA DOONE. 


appeared to be nothing at all remarkable 
about it, except that it sparkled here and 
there, when the flash of the flame fell upon 
it. A great, obstinate, oblong, sullen stone : 
how could it be worth the breaking, except 
for making roads with ? 

Nevertheless I took up the hammer, and, 
swinging it far behind my head, fetched it 
down, with all my power, upon the middle 
of the rock. The roof above rang mightily, 
and the echo went down delven galleries, 
so that all the miners flocked to know what 
might be doing. But Master Carfax only 
smiled, although the blow shook him where 
he stood ; for behold the stone was still un- 
broken, and as firm as ever. Then I smote 
it again with no better fortune, and Uncle 
Ben looked vexed and angry ; but all the 
miners grinned with triumph. 

“ This little tool is too light,” I cried ; 
* l one of you give me a piece of strong cord.” 

Then I took two more of the weightiest 
hammers, and lashed them fast to the back 
of mine, not so as to strike, but to burden 
the fall. Having made this firm, and with 
room to grasp the handle of the largest one 
only — for the helves of the others were 
shorter — I smiled at Uncle Ben, and whirl- 
ed the mighty implement round my head, 
just to try whether I could manage it. 
Upon that the miners gave a cheer, being 
honest men, and desirous of seeing fair play 
between this “shameless stone” (as Dan 
Homer calls it) and me with my hammer 
hammering. 

Then I swung me on high to the swing 
of the sledge, as a thresher bends back to 
the rise of his flail, and with all my power 
descending delivered the ponderous onset. 
Crashing and crushed, the great stone fell 
over, and threads of sparkling gold appear- 
ed in the jagged sides of the breakage. 

“How now, Simon Carfax?” cried Uncle 
Ben, triumphantly; “wilt thou find a man 
in Cornwall can do the like of that ?” 

“Ay, and more,” he answered; “however, 
it be pretty fair for a lad of these outland- 
ish parts. Get your rollers, my lads, and 
lead it to the crushing-engine.” 

I was glad to have been of some service 
to them ; for it seems that this great boulder 
had been too large to be drawn along the 
gallery, and too hard to crack. But now 
they moved it very easily, taking piece by 
piece, and carefully picking up the frag- 
ments. 

“ Thou hast done us a good turn, my lad,” 
said Uncle Reuben, as the others passed out 
of sight at the corner ; “ and now I will 
show thee the bottom of a very wondrous 
mystery. But we must not do it more than 
once, for the time of day is the wrong one.” 

The whole affair being a mystery to me, 
and far beyond my understanding, i follow- 
zed him softly without a word, yet thinking 
very heavily, and longing to be above-ground 


again. He led me through small passages 
to a hollow place near the descending shaft, 
where I saw a most extraordinary monster 
fitted up. Iu form it was like a great cof- 
fee-mill, such as I had seen iu London, only 
a thousand times larger, and with a heavy 
windlass to work it. 

“ Put in a barrow-load of the smoulder,” 
said Uucle Ben to Carfax, “and let them 
work the crank, for John to understand a 
thing or two.” 

“At this time of day!” cried Simon Car- 
fax ; “ and the watching as has been o’ late !” 

However, he did it without more remon- 
strance, pouring iuto the scuttle at the top 
of the machine about a basketful of broken 
rock; and then a dozen men went to the 
wheel, and forced it round as sailors do. 
Upon that such a hideous noise arose as 
I neyer should have believed any creature 
capable of making ; and I ran to the well 
of the mine for air, and to ease my ears, if 
possible. 

“ Enough, enough !” shouted Uncle Ben, by 
the time I was nearly deafened; “we will 
digest our goodly boulder after the devil is 
come abroad for his evening work. Now, 
John, not a word about what you have learn- 
ed ; but henceforth you will not be fright- 
ened by the noise we make at dusk.” 

I could not deny but what this was very 
clever management. If they could not keep 
the echoes of the upper air from moving, the 
wisest plan was to open their valves during 
the discouragement of the falling evening ; 
when folk would rather be driven away, 
i than drawn into the wilds and quagmires, 
by a sound so deep and awful coming 
through the darkness. 


CHAPTER LIX. 

LORNA GONE AWAY. 

Although there are very ancient tales 
of gold being found upon Exmoor, in lumps 
and solid hummocks, and of men who slew 
one another for it, this deep digging and 
great labor seemed to me a dangerous and 
unholy enterprise. And Master Huckaback 
confessed that up to the present time his 
two partners and himself (for they proved 
to be three adventurers) had put into the 
earth more gold than they had taken out of 
it. Nevertheless he felt quite sure that it 
must in a very short time succeed, and pay 
them back an hundred-fold ; and he pressed 
me with great earnestness to join them, and 
work there as much as I could, without 
moving my mother’s suspicions. I asked 
him how they had managed so long to car- 
ry on without discovery ; and he said that 
this was partly through the wildness of the 
neighborhood, and the legends that fright- 
ened people of a superstitious turn ; partly 


LORNA DOONE. 


219 


through their own great caution, and man- 
ner of fetching both supplies and implements 
by night ; but most of all, they had to thank 
the troubles of the period, the suspicions of 
rebellion, and the terror of the Dooues, which 
{like the wizard I was speaking of) kept 
folk from being too inquisitive where they 
had no business. The slough, moreover, 
had helped them well, both by making their 
access dark, and yet more by swallowing up 
and concealing all that was cast from the 
mouth of the pit. Once, before the attack 
on Glen Doone, they had a narrow escape 
from the King’s Commissioner; for Captain 
Stickles, having heard, no doubt, the story 
of John Fry, went with half a dozen troop- 
ers on purpose to search the neighborhood. 
Now if he had ridden alone, most likely he 
would have discovered every thing ; but he 
feared to venture so, having suspicion of a 
trap. Coming as they did in a company, 
all mounted and conspicuous, the watchman 
(who was posted now on the top of the hill, 
almost every day, since John Fry’s appear- 
ance) could not help espying them, miles 
distant, over the moor-land. He watched 
them under the shade of his hand, and pres- 
ently ran down the hill, and raised a great 
commotion. Then Simon Carfax and all 
his men came up, and made things natural, 
removing every sign of work ; and finally, 
sinking underground, drew across the mouth 
of the pit a hurdle thatched with sedge aud 
heather. Only Simon himself was left be- 
hind, ensconced in a hole of the crags, to ob- 
serve the doings of the enemy. 

Captain Stickles rode very bravely, with 
all his men clattering after him, down the 
rocky pass, aud even to the margin of the 
slough. And there they stopped, and held 
council ; for it was a perilous thing to risk 
the passage upon horseback between the 
treacherous brink and the cliff, unless one 
knew it thoroughly. Stickles, however, and 
one follower, carefully felt the way along, 
having their horses well in hand, and bear- 
ing a rope to draw them out, in case of be- 
ing foundered. Then they spurred across 
the rough boggy land farther away than the 
shaft was. Here the ground lay jagged and 
shaggy, wrought up with high tufts of reed, 
or scragged with stunted brush- wood. And 
between the ups and downs (which met any 
body anyhow) green-covered places tempted 
the foot, and black bog-holes discouraged it. 
It is not to be marveled at that amidst such 
place as this, for the first time visited, the 
horses were a little skeary ; and their riders 
partook of the feeling, as all good riders do. 
In aud out the tufts they went, with their 
eyes dilating ; wishing to be out of harm, if 
conscience were but satisfied. And of this 
tufty, flaggy ground, pocked with bogs and 
boglets, one especial nature is that it will 
not hold impressions. 

Seeing thus no track of men, nor any thing 


but marsli-work, and storm-work, and of the 
seasons, these two honest men rode back, and 
were glad to do so. For above them hung 
the mountains, cowled with fog aud seamed 
with storm, and around them desolation, aud 
below their feet the grave. Hence they 
went, with all good-will, aud vowed forever 
afterward that fear of a simple place like 
that was ouly too ridiculous. So they all 
rode home with mutual praises, and their 
courage well approved ; and the only result 
of the expedition was to confirm John Fry’s 
repute as a bigger liar than ever. 

Now I had enough of that underground 
work, as before related, to last me for a year 
to come ; neither would I, for sake of gold, 
have ever stepped into that bucket of my 
own good-will again. But when I told Lor- 
na — whom I could trust in any matter of 
secrecy as if she had never been a woman — 
all about my great descent, and the honey- 
combing of the earth, aud the mournful 
noise at even-tide, when the gold was under 
the crusher, and bewailing the mischief it 
must do, then Lorna’s chief desire was to 
know more about Simon Carfax. 

“ It must be our Gwenny’s father,” she 
cried; “the mah who disappeared under- 
ground, and whom she has ever been seek- 
ing. How grieved the poor little thing will 
be if it should turn out, after all, that he 
left his child on purpose ! I can hardly be- 
lieve it ; can you, .John ?” 

“Well,” I replied, “all men are wicked, 
more or less, to some extent, aud no man 
may say otherwise.” 

For I did not wish to commit myself 
to an opinion about Simon, lest I might be 
wrong, and Lorna think less of my judg- 
ment. 

But being resolved to see this out, and do 
a good turn, if I could, to Gwenny, who had 
done me many a good one, I begged my Lor- 
na to say not a word of this matter to the 
handmaiden until I had further searched it 
out. And to carry out this resolve, I went 
again to the place of business, where they 
were grinding gold as freely as an apothe- 
cary at his pills. 

Having now true right of entrance, and 
being known to the watchman, and regard- 
ed (since I cracked the boulder) as one who 
could pay his footing, and perhaps would 
be the master, when Uncle Ben should be 
choked with money, I found the corb sent 
up for me rather sooner than I wished it. 
For the smell of the places underground, 
and the way men’s eyes come out of them, 
with links, aud brands, and flambeaux, in- 
stead of God’s light to look at, were to me a 
point of caution rather than of pleasure. 

No doubt but what some men enjoy it, 
being born, like worms, to dig, and to live 
in their own scoopings. Yet even the worms 
come up sometimes, after a good soft shower 
of rain, and hold discourse with one anoth- 


220 


LORNA DOONE. 


er; whereas these men, and the horses let 
down, come aboveground never. 

And the changing of the sky is half the 
change our nature calls for. Earth we have, 
and all its produce (moving from the first 
appearance, and the hope with infant’s eyes, 
through the bloom of beauty’s promise, to 
the rich and bright fulfillment, and the fall- 
ing back to rest) ; sea we have (with all its 
wonder shed on eyes, and ears, and heart ; 
and the thought of something more) — but 
without the sky to look at, what would 
earth, and sea, and even our own selves, be 
to us ?” 

Do we look at earth with hope ? Yes, for 
victuals only. Do we look at sea with hope? 
Yes, that we may escape it. At the sky 
alone (though questioned with the doubts 
of sunshine, or scattered with uncertain 
stars), at the sky alone we look, with pure 
hope and with memory. 

Hence it always hurt my feelings when I 
got into that bucket, with my small-clothes 
turned up over, and a kerchief round my 
hat. But knowing that my purpose was 
sound, and my motives pure, I let the sky 
grow to a little blue hole, and then to noth- 
ing over me. At the bottom Master Carfax 
met me, being captain of the mine, and de- 
sirous to know my business. He wore a 
loose sack round his shoulders, and his beard 
was two feet long. 

“ My business is to speak with you,” I an- 
swered, rather sternly ; for this man, who 
was nothing more than Uncle Reuben’s serv- 
ant, had carried things too far with me, 
showing no respect whatever; and though 
I do not care for much, I liked to receive a 
little, even in my early days. 

“Coom into the muck-hole, then,” was 
his gracious answer ; and he led me into a 
filthy cell, where the miners changed their 
jackets. 

“ Simon Carfax,” I began, with a manner 
to discourage him, “ I fear you are a shallow 
fellow, and not worth my trouble.” 

“ Then don’t take it,” he replied ; “ I want 
no man’s trouble.” 

“ For your sake I would not,” I answered; 
“but for your daughter’s sake I will; the 
daughter whom you left to starve so pitiful- 
ly in the wilderness.” 

The man stared at me with his pale gray 
eyes, whose color was lost from candle-light ; 
and his voice as well as his body shook, 
while he cried, 

“It is a lie, man. No daughter and no 
son have I. Nor was ever child of mine left 
to starve in the wilderness. You are too big 
for me to tackle, and that makes you a cow- 
ard for saying it.” His hands were play- 
ing with a pickaxe-helve, as if he longed to 
have me under it. 

“ Perhaps I have wronged you, Simon,” I 
answered, very softly ; for the sweat upon 
his forehead shone in the smoky torch-light : 


“if I have, I crave your pardon. But did 
you not bring up from Cornwall a little 
maid named ‘ Gwenny,’ and supposed to be 
your daughter ?” 

“Ay, and she was my daughter, my last 
and only child of five ; and for her I would 
give this mine, and all the gold will ever 
come from it.” 

“ You shall have her, without either mine 
or gold, if you only prove to me that you did 
not abandon her.” 

“Abandon her! I abandon Gwenny !” He 
cried, with such a rage of scorn, that I at 
once believed him. “ They told me she was 
dead, and crushed, and buried in the drift 
here ; and half my heart died with her. The 
Almighty blast their mining -work, if the 
scoundrels lied to me !” 

“ The scoundrels must have lied to you,” 
I answered, with a spirit fired by his heat 
of fury ; “ the maid is living, and with us. 
Come up, and you shall see her.” 

“ Rig the bucket !” he shouted out along 
the echoing gallery ; and then he fell against 
the wall, and through the grimy sack I saw 
the heaving of his breast, as I have seen my 
opponent’s chest in a long, hard bout of 
wrestling. For my part, I could do no more 
than hold my tongue and look at him. 

Without another word we rose to the level 
of the moors and mires ; neither would Mas- 
ter Carfax speak, as I led him across the 
barrows. In this he was welcome to his 
own way, for I do love silence, so little harm 
can come of it. And though Gwenny was 
no beauty, her father might be fond of her. 

So I put him in the cow-house (not to 
frighten the little maid), and the folding 
shutters over him, such as we used at the 
beestings ; and he listened to my voice out- 
side, and held on, and preserved himself. 
For now he would have scooped the earth 
as cattle do at yearning-time, and as meekly 
and as patiently, to have his child restored 
to him. Not to make long tale of it — for 
this thing is beyond me, through want of 
true experience — I went and fetched his 
Gwenny forth from the back kitchen, where 
she was fighting, as usual, with our Betty. 

“Come along, you little Vick,” I said, for 
so we called her ; “ I have a message to you, 
Gwenny, from the Lord in heaven.” 

“ Dont ’ee talk about He,” she answered ; 
“ Her have long forgatten me.” 

“That He has never done, you stupid. 
Come and see who is in the cow-house.” 

Gwenny knew ; she knew in a moment. 
Looking into my eyes, she knew ; and hang- 
ing back from me to sigh, she knew it even 
better. 

She had not much elegance of emotion, 
being flat and square all over ; but none the 
less for that her heart came quick, and her 
words came slowly. 

“Oh, Jan, you are too good to cheat me. 
Is it joke you are putting upon me ?” 


LORNA DOONE. 


221 


I answered her with a gaze alone; and 
she tucked up her clothes and followed me, 
because the road was dirty. Then I opened 
the door just wide enough for the child to 
go to her father, and left those two to have 
it out, as might be most natural. And they 
took a long time about it. 

Meanwhile I needs must go and tell my 
Lorna all the matter; and her joy was al- 
most as great as if she herself had found a 
father. And the wonder of the whole was 
this, that I got all the credit, of which not a 
thousandth part belonged by right and rea- 
son to me. Yet so it almost always is. If 
I work for good desert, and slave, and lie 
awake at night, and spend my unborn life 
in dreams, not a blink, nor wink, nor inkling 
of my labor ever tells. It would have been 
better to leave unburned, and to keep unde- 
voured, the fuel and the food of life. But if 
I have labored not, only acted by some im- 
pulse, whim, caprice, or any thing, or even 
acting not at all, only letting things float by, 
piled upon me commendations, bravoes, and 
applauses, almost work me up to tempt once 
again (though sick of it) the ill-luck of de- 
serving. 

Without intending any harm, and mean- 
ing only good indeed, I had now done se- 
rious wrong to Uncle Reuben’s prospects. 
For Captain Carfax was full as angry at the 
trick played on him, as he was happy in dis- 
covering the falsehood and the fraud of it. 
Nor could I help agreeing with him, when 
he told me all of it, as with tears in his eyes 
he did, and ready to be my slave henceforth. 
I could not forbear from owning that it was 
a low and heartless trick, unworthy of men 
who had families; and the recoil whereof 
was well deserved, whatever it might end in. 

For when this poor man left his daughter 
asleep, as he supposed, and having his food, 
and change of clothes, and Sunday hat to see 
to, he meant to return in an hour or so, and 
settle about her sustenance in some house of 
the neighborhood. But this was the very 
thing of all things which the leaders of the 
enterprise, who had brought him up from 
Cornwall, for his noted skill in metals, were 
determined, whether by fair means or foul, 
to stop at the very outset. Secrecy being 
their main object, what chance could there 
be of it if the miners were allowed to keep 
their children in the neighborhood ? Hence, 
on the plea of feasting Simon, they kept him 
drunk for three days and three nights, as- 
suring him (whenever he had gleams enough 
to ask for her) that his daughter was as well 
as could be, and enjoying herself with the 
children. Not wishing the maid to see him 
tipsy, he pressed the matter no further, but 
applied himself to the bottle again, and drank 
her health with pleasure. 

However, after three days of this, his con- 
stitution rose against it, and he became quite 
sober ; with a certain lowness of heart, more- 


over, and a sense of error. And his first deN 
sire to right himself, and easiest way to do 
it, was by exerting parental authority upon 
Gweuny. Possessed with this intention (for 
he was not a sweet-tempered man, and his 
head was aching sadly), he sought for Gwen- 
ny high and low ; first with threats, and then 
with fears, and then with tears and wailing. 
And so he became to the other men a warn- 
ing and great annoyance. Therefore they 
combined to swear what seemed a very 
likely thing, and might be true, for all they 
knew ; to wit, that Gwenny had come to 
seek for her father down the shaft-hole, and 
peering too eagerly into the dark, had top- 
pled forward and gone down, and lain at the 
bottom as dead as a stone. 

“And thou being so happy with drink,” 
the villains finished up to him, “ and getting 
drunker every day, we thought it shame to 
trouble thee; and we buried the wench in 
the lower drift; and no use to think more 
of her, but come and have a glass, Sim.” 

But Simon Carfax swore that drink had 
lost him his wife, and now had lost him the 
last of his five children, and would lose him 
his own soul, if farther he went on with it ; 
and from that day to his death he never 
touched strong drink again. Nor only this ; 
but being soon appointed captain of the 
mine, he allowed no man on any pretext to 
bring cordials thither; and to this and his 
stern hard rule, and stealthy secret manage- 
ment (as much as to good luck and place), 
might it be attributed that scarcely any but 
themselves had dreamed about this Exmoor 
miue. 

As for me, I had no ambition to become a 
miner ; and the state to which gold-seeking 
had brought poor Uncle Ben was not at all 
encouraging. My business was to till the 
ground, and tend the growth that came of 
it, and store the fruit in Heaven’s good time, 
rather than to scoop and burrow like a wea- 
sel or a rat for the yellow root of evil. More- 
over, I was led from home between the hay 
and corn harvests (when we often have a 
week to spare), by a call there was no resist- 
ing, unless I gave up all regard for wrest- 
ling, and for my county. 

Now here many persons may take me 
amiss, and there always has been some con- 
fusion, which people who ought to have 
known better have wrought into subject of 
quarreling. By birth it is true, and can not 
be denied, that I am a man of Somerset; 
nevertheless, by breed I am, as well as by 
education, a son of Devon also. And just 
as both our two counties vowed that Glen 
Doone was none of theirs, but belonged to 
the other one, so now, each with hot claim 
and jangling (leading even to blows some- 
times), asserted, and would swear to it (as I 
became more famous), that John Ridd was 
of its own producing, bred of its own true 
blood, and basely stolen by the other. 


222 


LORNA DOONE. 


Now I have not judged it in any way need- 
ful, or even becoming and delicate, to enter 
into my wrestling adventures, or describe 
my progress. The whole thing is so differ- 
ent from Lorna, and her gentle manners, and 
her style of walking ; moreover, I must seem 
(even to kind people) to magnify myself so 
much, or at least attempt to do it, that I 
have scratched out written pages, through 
my better taste and sense. 

Neither will I, upon this head, make any 
difference even now ; being simply betrayed 
into mentioning the matter, because bare 
truth requires it, in the tale of Lorna’s for- 
tunes. 

For a mighty giant had arisen in a part 
of Cornwall, and his calf was twenty-five 
inches round, and the breadth of his shoul- 
ders two feet and a quarter, and his stature 
seven feet and three-quarters. Round the 
chest he was seventy inches, and his hand a 
foot across, and there were no scales strong 
enough to judge of his weight in -the mar- 
ket-place. Now this man — or I should say, 
his backers and his boasters, for the giant 
himself was modest — sent me a brave and 
haughty challenge to meet him in the ring 
at Bodmin-town on the first day of August, 
or else to return my champion’s belt to them 
by the messenger. 

It is no use to deny but that I was great- 
ly dashed and scared at first. For my part, 
I was only, when measured without clothes 
on, sixty inches round the breast, and round 
the calf scarce twenty-one, only two feet 
across the shoulders, and in height not six 
and three-quarters. However, my mother 
would never believe that this man could 
beat me ; and Lorna being of the same mind, 
I resolved to go and try him, as they would 
pay all expenses, and a hundred pounds, if 
I conquered him, so confident were those 
Cornishmen. 

Now this story is too well known for me 
to go through it again and again. Every 
child in Devonshire knows, and his grand- 
son will know, the song which some clever 
man made of it, after I had treated him to 
water, and to lemon, and a little sugar, and 
a drop of eau-de-vie. Enough that I had 
found the giant quite as big as they had de- 
scribed him, and enough to terrify any one. 
But trustiug in my practice and study of 
the art, I resolved to try a back with him ; 
and when my arms were round him once, 
the giant was but a farthingale put into 
the vise of a blacksmith. The man had no 
bones ; his frame sank in, and I was afraid 
of crushing him. He lay on his back and 
smiled at me, and I begged his pardon. 

Now this affair made a noise at the time, 
and redounded so much to my credit that I 
was deeply grieved at it, because deserving 
none. For I do like a good strife and strug- 
gle; and the doubt makes the joy of vic- 
tory; whereas in this case I might as well 


have been sent for a match with a hay-mow. 
However, I got my hundred pounds, and 
made up my mind to spend every farthing 
in presents for mother and Lorna. 

For Annie was married by this time, and 
long before I w’ent away ; as need scarcely 
be said, perhaps, if any one follows the weeks 
and the months. The wedding was quite 
enough, except for every body’s good wish- 
es ; and I desire not to dwell upon it, because 
it grieved me in many ways. 

But now that I had tried to hope the very 
best for dear Annie, a deeper blow than could 
have come, even through her, awaited me. 
For after that visit to Cornwall, and with 
my prize-money about me, I came on foot 
from Okehampton to Oare, so as to save a 
little sum toward my time of marrying. For 
Lorna’s fortune I would not have ; small or 
great, I would not have it ; only if there were 
no denying, we would devote the whole of it 
to charitable uses, as Master Peter Blundell 
had done ; and perhaps the future ages would 
endeavor to be grateful. Lorna and I had 
settled this question at least twice a day on 
the average, and each time with more satis- 
faction. 

Now coming into the kitchen with all my 
cash in my breeches-pocket (golden guineas, 
with au elephant on them, for the stamp of 
the guinea company), I found dear mother 
most heartily glad to see me safe and sound 
again — for she had dreaded that giant, and 
dreamed of him — and she never asked me 
about the money. Lizzie, also, was softer, 
and more gracious than usual; especially 
when she saw me pour guineas, like pepper- 
corns, into the puddiug-basin. But by the 
way they hung about, I knew that some- 
thing was gone wrong. 

“Where is Lorna?” I asked at length, af- 
ter trying not to ask it ; “I want her to 
come and see my money. She never saw so 
much before.” 

“Alas!” said mother, with a heavy sigh, 
“ she will see a great deal more, I fear, and 
a deal more than is good for her. Whether 
you ever see her again will depend upon her 
nature, John.” 

“ What do you mean, mother ? Have you 
quarreled ? Why does not Lorna come to 
me ? Am I never to know ?” 

“Now, John, be not so impatient,” my 
mother replied, quite calmly, for in truth 
she was jealous of Lorna ; “ you could wait 
now very well, John, if it were till this day 
week, for the coming of your mother, John. 
And yet your mother is your best friend. 
Who can ever fill her place ?” 

Thinking of her future absence, mother 
turned away and cried, and the box-iron 
singed the blanket. 

“ Now,” said I, being wild by this time, 
“ Lizzie, you have a little sense ; will you 
tell me where is Lorna ?” 

“The Lady Lorna Dugal,” said Lizzie, 


LORNA DOONE. 


223 


screwing up her lips, as if the title were too 
grand, “is gone to London, brother John, 
and not likely to come back again. We 
must try to get on without her.” 

“You little” — [something] I cried, which 
I dare not write down here, as all you are 
too good for such language ; but Lizzie’s 
lip provoked me so — “ my Lorna gone, my 
Lorna gone! And without good-bye to me 
even ! It is your spite has sickened her.” 

“You are quite mistaken there,” she re- 
plied ; “ how can folk of low degree have 
either spite or liking toward the people so 
far above them ? The Lady Lorna Dugal 
is gone, because she could not help herself; 
and she wept enough to break ten hearts — 
if hearts are ever broken, John.” 

“Darling Lizzie, how good you are!” I 
cried, without noticing her sneer ; “ tell me 
all about it, dear; tell me every word she 
said.” 

“That will not take long,” said Lizzie, 
quite as unmoved by soft coaxing as by ur- 
gent cursing ; “the lady spoke very little to 
any one, except, indeed, to mother, and to 
Gwenny Carfax; and Gwenny is gone with 
her, so that the benefit of that is lost. But 
she left a letter for ‘poor John,’ as in char- 
ity she called him. How grand she looked, 
to be sure, with the fine clothes on that were 
come for her !” 

“ Where is the letter, you utter vixen ? 
Oh, may you have a husband !” 

“ Who will thrash it out of you, and starve 
it, and swear it out of you !” was the mean- 
ing of my imprecation : but Lizzie, not 
dreaming as yet of such things, could not 
understand me, and was rather thankful; 
therefore she answered quietly, 

“ The letter is in the little cupboard, near 
the head of Lady Lorna’s bed, where she 
used to keep the diamond necklace, which 
we contrived to get stolen.” 

Without another word, I rushed (so that 
every board in the house shook) up to my 
lost Lorna’s room, and tore the little wall- 
niche open, and espied my treasure. It was 
as simple, and as homely, and loving, as even 
I could wish. Part of it ran as follows — 
the other parts it behooves me not to open 
out to strangers : “ My own love, and some- 
time lord, — Take it not amiss of me, that 
even without farewell, I go ; for I can not 
persuade the men to wait, your return being 
doubtful. My great-uncle, some grand lord, 
is awaiting me at Dunster, having fear of 
venturing too near this Exmoor country. 
I, who have been so lawless always, and the 
child of outlaws, am now to atone for this, 
it seems, by living in a court of law, and un- 
der special surveillance (as they call it, I be- 
lieve) of His Majesty’s Court of Chancery. 
My uncle is appointed my guardian and 
master ; and I must live beneath his care 
until I am twenty-one years old. To me 
this appears a dreadful thing, and very un- 


just and cruel; for why should I lose my 
freedom through heritage of land and gold t 
I offered to abandon all if they would only let 
me go : I went down on my knees to them, 
and said I wanted titles not, neither land, 
nor money ; only to stay where I was, where 
first I had known happiness. But they only 
laughed, and called me ‘ child,’ and said I 
must talk of that to the King’s High Chan- 
cellor. Their orders they had, and must 
obey them ; and Master Stickles was order- 
ed, too, to help, as the Iviug’s Commissioner. 
And then, although it pierced my heart not 
to say one ‘good-bye, John,’ I was glad upon 
the whole that you were not here to dispute 
it. For I am almost certain that you would 
not, without force to yourself, have let your 
Lorna go to people who never, never can care 
for her.” 

Here my darling had wept again, by the 
tokens on the paper ; and then there follow- 
ed some sweet words, too sweet for me to- 
chatter them. But she finished with these 
noble lines, which (being common to all hu- 
manity, in a case of steadfast love) I do no 
harm, but rather help all true-love by repeat- 
ing. “ Of one thing rest you well assured — 
and I do hope that it may prove of service 
to your rest, love, else would my own be 
broken — no difference of rank, or fortune, or 
of life itself, shall ever make me swerve from 
truth to you. We have passed through many 
troubles, dangers, and dispartments, but nev- 
er yet was doubt between us; neither ever 
shall be. Each has trusted well the other, 
and still each must do so. Though they tell 
you I am false, though your own mind har- 
bors it, from the sense of things around, and 
your own undervaluing, yet take counsel of 
your heart, and cast such thoughts away 
from you ; being unworthy of itself, they 
must be unworthy also of the one who 
dwells there; and that one is, and ever shall 
be, your own Lorna Dugal.” 

Some people can not understand that 
tears should come from pleasure ; but wheth- 
er from pleasure or from sorrow (mixed as 
they are in the twisted strings of a man’s 
heart, or a woman’s), great tears fell from 
my stupid eyes, even on the blots of Lorna’s. 

“ No doubt it is all over,” my mind said 
to me bitterly. “ Trust me, all shall yet be 
right,” my heart replied very sweetly. 


CHAPTER LX. 

ANNIE LUCKIER THAN JOHN. 

Some people may look down upon us for 
our slavish ways (as they may choose to call 
them) ; but in our part of the country we do 
love to mention title, and to roll it on our 
tongues with a conscience and a comfort. 
Even if a man knows not, through fault of 
education, who the Duke of this is, or the 


224 


LORNA DOONE. 


Earl of that, it will never do for him to say 
so, lest the room look down on him. There- 
fore he must nod his head, and say, u Ah, to 
he sure ! I know him as well as ever I know 
my own good woman’s brother. He mar- 
ried Lord Flipflap’s second daughter, and a 
precious life she led him.” Whereupon the 
room looks up at him. But I, being quite 
unable to carry all this in my head, as I 
ought, was speedily put down by people of 
a noble tendency, apt at Lords, and pat 
with Dukes, and knowing more about the 
King than His Majesty would have request- 
ed. Therefore, I fell back in thought, not 
daring in words to do so, upon the titles of 
our horses. And all these horses deserved 
their names, not having merely inherited, but 
by their own doing earned them. Smiler, 
for instance, had been so called, not so much 
from a habit of smiling, as from his gen- 
eral geniality, white nose, and white ankle. 
This worthy horse was now in years, but 
hale and gay as ever; and when you let 
him out of the stable, he could neigh and 
whinny, and make men and horses know it. 
On the other hand, Kickums was a horse of 
morose and surly order; harboring up re- 
venge, and leading a rider to false confi- 
dence. Very smoothly he would go, and as 
gentle as a turtle-dove, until his rider fully 
believed that a pack-thread was enough for 
him, and a pat of approval upon his neck 
the aim and crown of his worthy life. Then 
suddenly up went his hind-feet to heaven, 
and the rider for the most part flew over his 
nose ; whereupon good Kickums would take 
advantage of bis favorable position to come 
and bite a piece out of his back. Now in 
my present state of miud, being understood 
of nobody, haviug none to bear me company, 
neither wishing to have any, an indefinite 
kind of attraction drew me into Kickums’s 
society. A bond of mutual sympathy was 
soon established between us; I would ride 
no other horse, neither Kickums be ridden 
by any other man. And this good horse 
became as jealous about me as a dog might 
be ; and would lash out, or run teeth fore- 
most, at any one who came near him when 
I -was on his back. 

This season, the reaping of the corn, which 
had been but a year ago so pleasant and so 
lightsome, was become a heavy labor, and a 
thing for grumbling rather than for glad- 
ness. However, for the sake of all, it must 
be attended to, and with as fair a show of 
spirit and alacrity as might be. For other- 
wise the rest would drag, and drop their 
hands and idle, being quicker to take infec- 
tion of dullness than of diligence. And the 
harvest was a heavy one, even heavier than 
the year before, although of poorer quality. 
Therefore was I forced to work as hard as 
any horse could during all the daylight 
hours, and defer till night the brooding upon 
my misfortune. But the darkness always 


found me stiff with work, and weary, and 
less able to think than to dream, maybe, of 
Lorna. And now the house was so dull and 
lonesome, wanting Annie’s pretty presenco 
and the light of Lorna’s eyes, that a man 
had no temptation after supper-time even 
to sit and smoke a pipe. 

For Lizzie, though so learned and pleas- 
ant when it suited her, never had taken very 
kiudly to my love for Lorna ; and being of 
a proud and slightly upstart nature, could 
not bear to be eclipsed in bearing, looks, and 
breeding, and even in clothes, by the stran- 
ger. For one thing I will say of the Doones, 
that whether by purchase or plunder, they 
had always dressed my darling well, with 
her own sweet taste to help them. And 
though Lizzie’s natural hate of the maid (as 
a Doone, and burdened with father’s death) 
should have been changed to remorse, when 
she learned of Lorna’s real parentage, it was 
only altered to sullenness, and discontent 
with herself, for frequent rudeness to an 
innocent person, and one of such high de- 
scent. Moreover, the child had imbibed 
strange ideas as to our aristocracy, partly, 
perhaps, from her own way of thinking, and 
partly from reading of history. For while 
from one point of view she looked up at 
them very demurely, as commissioned by 
God for the country’s good, from another 
sight she disliked them, as ready to sacrifice 
their best and follow their worst members. 

Yet why should this wench dare to judge 
upon a matter so far beyond her, and form 
opinions which she knew better than to 
declare before mother? But with me she 
had no such scruple, for I had no authority 
over her ; and my intellect she looked down 
upon, because I praised her own so. Thus 
she made herself very unpleasant to me ; 
by little jags and jerks of sneering, sped 
as though unwittingly; which I (who now 
considered myself allied to the aristocracy, 
and perhaps took airs on that account) had 
not wit enough to parry, yet had wound 
enough to feel. 

Now any one who does not know exactly 
how mothers feel and think would have ex- 
pected my mother (than whom could be no 
better one) to pet me, and make much of me, 
under my sad trouble ; to hang with anxiety 
on my looks, and shed her tears with mine 
(if any), and season every dish of meat put 
by for her John’s return. And if the whole 
truth must be told, I did expect that sort of 
thing, and thought what a plague it would 
be to me ; yet not getting it, was vexed, as 
if by some new injury. For mother was a 
special creature (as I suppose we all are), 
being the warmest of the warm, when fired 
at the proper corner; and yet, if taken at 
the wrong point, you would say she was in- 
combustible. 

Hence it came to pass that I had no one 
even to speak to about Lorna and my griev- 


LORNA DOONE. 


225 


ances; for Captain Stickles was now gone 
southward ; and John Fry, of course, was too 
low for it, although a married man, and well 
under his wife’s management. But finding 
myself unable at last to bear this any long- 
er, upon the first day when all the wheat 
was cut, and the stooks set up in every field, 
yet none quite fit for carrying, I saddled 
good Kickums at five in the morning, and 
without a word to mother (for a little anx- 
iety might do her good) off I set for Holland 
parish, to have the counsel and the comfort 
of my darling Annie. 

The horse took me over the ground so fast 
(there being few better to go when he liked), 
that by nine o’clock Anuie was in my arms, 
and blushing to the color of Winnie’s cheeks, 
with sudden delight and young happiness. 

“You precious little soul!” I cried; “how 
does Tom behave to you ?” 

“ Hush !” said Anuie ; “ how dare you ask ? 
He is the kindest, and the best, and the no- 
blest of all men, John ; not even setting 
yourself aside. Now look not jealous, John ; 
so it is. We all have special gifts, you know. 
You are as good as you can be, John ; but 
my husband’s special gift is nobility of char- 
acter.” Here she looked at me as one who 
has discovered something quite unknown. 

“ I am devilish glad to hear it,” said I, 
being touched at going down so ; “keep him 
to that mark, my dear, and cork the whisky- 
bottle.” 

“ Yes, darling John,” she answered quick- 
ly, not desiring to open that subject, and be- 
ing too sweet to resent it ; “ and how is love- 
ly Lorna ? What an age it is since I have 
seen you ! I suppose we must thank her 
for that.” 

“ You may thank her for seeing me now,” 
said I ; “or rather,” seeing how hurt she 
looked, “ you may thank my knowledge of 
your kindness, and my desire to speak of her 
to a soft-hearted dear little soul like you. I 
think all the women are gone mad. Even 
mother treats me shamefully. And as for 
Lizzie — ” Here I stopped, knowing no words 
strong enough, without shocking Annie. 

“ Do you mean to say that Lorua is gone ?” 
asked Annie, iu great amazement, yet leap- 
ing at the truth, as women do, with nothing 
at all to leap from. 

“ Gone. And I never shall see her again. 
It serves me right for aspiring so.” 

Being grieved at my manner, she led me 
in where none could interrupt us; and in 
spite of all my dejection, I could not help 
noticing how very pretty, and even elegant, 
all things were around. For we upon Ex- 
moor have little taste ; all we care for is 
warm comfort, and plenty to eat and to give 
away, and a hearty smack in every thing. 
But Squire Faggus had seen the world, and 
kept company with great people ; and the 
taste he had first displayed in the shoeing 
.of farmers’ horses (which led almost to his 
15 


ruin, by bringing him into jealousy, and flat- 
tery, and dashing ways) had now been cul- 
tivated in London, and by moonlight, so that 
none could help admiring it. 

“ Well !” I cried, for the moment dropping 
care and woe in astonishment; “we have 
nothing like this at Plover’s Barrows ; nor 
even Uncle Reuben. I do hope it is honest, 
Annie ?” 

“Would I sit in a chair that was not my 
own ?” asked Annie, turning crimson, and 
dropping defiantly, and with a whisk of her 
dress which I never had seen before, into 
the very grandest one ; “ would I lie on a 
couch, brother John, do you think, unless 
good money was paid for it ? Because oth- 
er people are clever, John, you need not 
grudge them their earnings.” 

“A couch!” I replied; “why what can 
you want with a couch in the day-time, An- 
nie ? A couch is a small bed, set up in a 
room without space for a good four-poster. 
What can you want with a couch down 
stairs ? I never heard of such nonsense. 
And you ought to be iu the dairy.” 

“ I won’t cry, brother John, I won’t ; be- 
cause you want to make me cry” — and all 
the time she was crying — “you always were 
so nasty, John, sometimes. Ah, you have 
no nobility of character like my husband. 
And I have not seen you for two months, 
John ; and now you come to scold me ?” 

“You little darling,” I said, for Annie’s 
tears always conquered me, “ if all the rest 
ill-use me, I will not quarrel with you, dear. 
You have always been true to me, and I can 
forgive your vanity. Your things are very 
pretty, dear ; and you may couch ten times 
a day, without my interference. No doubt 
your husband has paid for all this with the 
ponies he stole from Exmoor. Nobility of 
character is a thing beyond my understand- 
ing ; but when my sister loves a man, and 
he does well and flourishes, who am I to find 
fault with him ? Mother ought to see these 
things ; they would turn her head almost. 
Look at the pimples on the chairs!” 

“ They are nothing,” Anuie answered, af- 
ter kissing me for my kindness ; “ they are 
only put in for the time indeed ; and we are 
to have much better, with gold all round 
the bindings, and double plush at the cor- 
ners, so soon as ever the King repays the 
debt he owes to my poor Tom.” 

I thought to myself that our present King 
had been most unlucky in one thing — debts 
all over the kingdom. Not a man who had 
struck a blow for the King, or for his poor 
father, or even said a good word for him, 
in the time of his adversity, but expected at 
least a baronetcy, and a grant of estates to 
support it. Many have called King Charles 
ungrateful, and he may have been so. But 
some indulgence is due to a man with en- 
tries few on the credit side and a terrible 
column of debits. 


226 


LORNA DOONE. 


“ Have no fear for the chair,” I said, for it 
creaked under me very fearfully, having legs 
not so large as my finger ; “ if the chair 
breaks, Annie, your fear should he lest the 
tortoise-shell run into me. Why it is striped 
like a viper’s loins! I saw some hundreds 
in London, and very cheap they are. They 
are made to he sold to the country people, 
such as you and me, dear ; and carefully 
kept they will last for almost half a year. 
Now will you come back from your furni- 
ture, and listen to my story ?” 

Annie was a hearty dear, and she knew 
that half my talk was joke, to make light 
of my worrying. Therefore she took it in 
good part, as I well knew that she would 
do ; and she led me to a good honest chair ; 
and she sat in my lap and kissed me. 

“All this is not like you, John. All this 
is not one hit like you ; and your cheeks are 
not as they ought to be. I shall have to 
come home again, if the women worry my 
brother so. We always held together, John ; 
and we always will, you know.” 

“ You dear,” I cried, “ there is nobody who 
understands me as you do. Lorna makes 
too much of me, and the rest they make too 
little.” 

“ Not mother ; oh, not mother, John !” 

“No, mother makes too much, no doubt, 
but wants it all for herself alone, and reck- 
ons it as a part of her. She makes me more 
wroth than any one ; as if not only my life, 
but all my head and heart must seek from 
hers, and have no other thought or care.” 

Being sped of my grumbling thus, and 
eased into better temper, I told Annie all the 
strange history about Lorna and her depart- 
ure, and the small chance that now remain- 
ed to me of ever seeing my love again. To 
this Annie would not hearken twice ; but 
judging women by her faithful self, was 
quite vexed with me for speaking so. And 
then, to my surprise and sorrow, she would 
deliver no opinion as to what I ought to do 
until she had consulted darling Tom. 

Dear Tom knew much of the world, no 
doubt, especially the dark side of it. But 
to me it scarcely seemed becoming that my 
course of action with regard to the Lady 
Lorna Du gal should be referred to Tom Fag- 
gus, and depend upon his decision. How- 
ever, I would not grieve Annie again by 
making light of her husband ; and so when 
he came in to dinner, the matter was laid 
before him. 

Now this man never confessed himself sur- 
prised, under any circumstances ; his knowl- 
edge of life being so profound, and his char- 
ity universal. And in the present case he 
vowed that he had suspected it all along, 
and could have thrown light upon Lorna’s 
history, if we had seen fit to apply to him. 
Upon further inquiry, I found that this light 
was a very dim one, flowing only from the 
fact that he had stopped her mother’s coach 


at the village of Bolham, on the Bampton/- 
road, the day before I saw them. Finding; 
only women therein, and these in a sad con- 
dition, Tom, with his usual chivalry (as lie 
had no scent of the necklace), allowed them 
to pass, with nothing more than a pleasant 
exchange of courtesies, and a testimonial 
forced upon him in the shape of a bottle 
of Burgundy wine. This the poor countess 
handed him ; and he twisted the cork out 
with his teeth, and drank her health with 
his hat off. 

“A lady she was, and a true one; and I 
am a pretty good judge,” said Tom. “Ah, 

I do like a high lady !” 

Our Annie looked rather queer at this, 
having no pretensions to be one; but she 
conquered herself, and said, “ Yes, Tom ; and 
many of them liked you.” 

With this Tom went on the brag at once, 
being but a shallow fellow, and not of settled 
principles, though steadier than he used to be, . 
until I felt myself almost bound to fetch him 
back a little ; for of all things I do hate brag 
the most, as any reader of this tale must by 
this time know. Therefore I said to Squire 
Faggus, “Come back from your highway 
days. You have married the daughter of an 
honest man, and such talk is not fit for her. 
If you were right in robbing people, I am 
right in robbing you. I could bind you to 
your own mantel-piece, as you know thor- 
oughly well, Tom, and drive away your own 
horses, and all your goods behind them, but 
for the sense of honesty. And should I not 
do as fine a thing as any you did on the 
highway ? If every thing is of public right, 
how does this chair belong to you ? Clever 
as you are, Tom Faggus, you are nothing but 
a fool to mix your felony with your farmer- 
ship. Drop the one, or drop the other ; you 
can not maintain them both.” 

As I finished very sternly a speech which, 
had exhausted me more than ten rounds of 
wrestling — but I was carried away by the 
truth, as sometimes happens to all of us — 
Tom had not a word to say ; albeit his mind 
was so much more nimble and rapid than 
ever mine was. He leaned against the 
mantel-piece (a newly-invented afiair in his 
house) as if I had corded him to it, even as 
I spoke of doing. And he laid one hand on 
his breast in a way which made Auuie creep 
softly to him, and look at me not like a sister. 

“ You have done me good, John,” he said 
at last, and the hand he gave me was trem- 
bling ; “there is no other man on God’s earth, 
would have dared to speak to me as you 
have done. From no other would I have 
taken it. Nevertheless, every word is true, 
and I shall dwell on it when you are gone. 
If you never did good in your life before, 
John, my brother, you have done it now.” 

He turned away in bitter pain, that none- 
might see his trouble; and Annie, going 
along with him, looked as if I had killed our- 


LORNA DOONE. 


227 


mother. For my part, I was so upset for 
fear of having gone too far, that without a 
word to either of them, hut a message on 
the title-page of King James his Prayer- 
hook, I saddled Kickums, and was off, and 
glad of the moor-land air again. 


CHAPTER LXI. 

THEREFORE HE SEEKS COMFORT. 

It was for poor Annie’s sake that I had 
spoken my mind to her husband so freely, 
and even harshly. For we all knew she 
would break her heart if Tom took to evil 
ways again. And the right mode of pre- 
venting this was, not to coax, and flatter, 
and make a hero of him (which he did for 
himself quite sufficiently), hut to set before 
him the folly of the thing, and the ruin to 
his own interests. 

They would both be vexed with me, of 
course, for having left them so hastily, and 
especially just before dinner-time; but that 
would soon wear off; and most likely they 
w r ould come to see mother, and tell her that 
I was hard to manage, and they could feel 
for her about it. 

Now with a certain yearning, I know not 
what, for softness, and for one who could un- 
derstand me — for simple as a child though 
being, I found few to do that last, at any 
rate in my love-time — I relied upon Kick- 
ums’s strength to take me round by Dulver- 
ton. It would make the journey some eight 
miles longer, but what was that to a brisk 
young horse, even with my weight upon 
him? And having left Squire Faggus and 
Annie much sooner than had # been intended, 
I had plenty of time before me, and too much 
ere a prospect of dinner. Therefore I struck 
to the right, across the hills, for Dulverton. 

Pretty Ruth was in the main street of the 
town, with a basket in her hand, going home 
from the market. 

“ Why, Cousin Ruth, you are grown,” I ex- 
claimed ; “ I do believe you are, Ruth. And 
you were almost too tall, already.” 

At this the little thing was so pleased 
that she smiled through her blushes beauti- 
fully, and must needs come to shake hands 
with me ; though I signed to her not to do it, 
because of my horse’s temper. But scarce- 
ly was her hand in mine, when Kickums 
turned like an eel upon her and caught her 
by the left arm with his teeth, so that she 
screamed with agony. I saw the white of 
his vicious eye, and struck him there with 
all my force, with my left hand over her 
right arm, and he never used that eye again ; 
none the less he kept his hold on her. Then 
I smote him again on the jaw, and caught 
the little maid up by her right hand, and 
laid her on the saddle in front of me ; while 
the horse, being giddy aud staggered with | 


blows, and foiled of his spite, ran backward. 
Ruth’s wits were gone; and she lay before 
me in such a helpless aud senseless way, 
that I could have killed vile Kickums. I 
struck the spurs into him past the rowels, 
and away he went at full gallop ; while I 
had enough to do to hold on, with the little 
girl lying in front of me. But I called to 
the men who were flocking around to send 
up a surgeon as quick as could be to Master 
Reuben Huckaback’s. 

The moment I brought my right arm to 
bear, the vicious horse had no chance with 
me ; and if ever a horse was well paid for 
spite, Kickums had his change that day. 
The bridle would almost have held a whale, 
and I drew on it so that his lower jaw was 
well-nigh broken from him ; while with both 
spurs I tore his flanks, aud he learned a lit- 
tle lesson. There are times when a man is 
more vicious than any horse may vie with. 
Therefore by the time we had reached Un- 
cle Reuben’s house at the top of the hill, the 
bad horse was only too happy to stop ; ev- 
ery string of his body was trembling, and 
his head hanging down with impotence. I 
leaped from his back at once, and carried 
the maiden into her own sweet room. 

Now Cousin Ruth Avas recovering softly 
from her fright and faintness ; and the vol- 
ley of the wind, from galloping so, had made 
her little ears quite pink, and shaken her 
locks all round her. But any one who 
might wish to see a comely sight and a 
moving one, need only have looked at Ruth 
Huckaback when she learned (and imagined 
yet more than it was) the manner of her lit- 
tle ride with me. Her hair was of a hazel- 
brown, and full of waving readiness ; and 
with no concealment of the trick, she spread 
it over her eyes and face. Being so delight- 
ed with her, and so glad to see her safe, I 
kissed her through the thick of it, as a cous- 
in has a right to do ; yea, and ought to do, 
with gravity. 

“Darliug,” I said, “he has bitten you 
dreadfully ; show me your poor arm, dear.” 

She pulled up her sleeve in the simplest 
manner,- rather to look at it herself, than to 
show me where the wound was. Her sleeve 
was of dark blue Taunton staple ; aud her 
white arm shone, coming out of it, as round 
and plump and velvety as a stalk of aspara- 
gus newly fetched out of ground. But above 
the curved soft elbow, where no room was 
for one cross word (according to our prov- 
erb*) three sad gashes, edged with crimson, 
spoiled the flow of the pearly flesh. My 
presence of mind was lost altogether ; and 
I raised the poor sore arm to my lips, both 
to stop the bleeding and to take the venom 
out, having heard how wise it was, and 
thinking of my mother. But Ruth, to my 


* “A maid with an elbow sharp, or knee, 

Hath cross words two out of every three.” 


228 


LORNA DOONE. 


great amazement, drew away from me in 
bitter liaste, as if I had been inserting in- 
stead of extracting poison. For the bite of 
a horse is most venomous ; especially when 
he sheds his teeth ; and far more to be fear- 
ed than the bite of a dog, or even of a cat. 
And in my haste I had forgotten that Ruth 
might not know a word about this, and 
might doubt about my meaning, and the 
warmth of my osculation. But knowing 
her danger, I durst not heed her childish- 
ness or her feelings. 

“Don’t be a fool, Cousin Ruth,” I said, 
catching her so that she could not move ; 
“the poison is soaking into you. Do you 
think that I do it for pleasure ?” 

The spread of shame on her face was such, 
when she saw her own misunderstanding, 
that I was ashamed to look at her, and oc- 
cupied myself with drawiug all the risk of 
glanders forth from the white limb, hanging 
helpless now, and left entirely to my will. 
Before I was quite sure of having wholly 
exhausted suction, and when I had made the 
holes in her arm look like the gills of a lam- 
prey, in came the doctor, partly drunk, and 
in haste to get through his business. 

“Ha, ha! I see,” he cried; “bite of a 
horse, they tell me. Very poisonous ; must 
be burned away. Sally, the iron in the fire. 
If you have a fire this weather.” 

“ Crave your pardon, good sir,” I said ; for 
poor little Ruth was fainting again at his 
savage orders ; “ but my cousin’s arm shall 
not be burned ; it is a great deal too pretty, 
and I have sucked all the poison out. Look, 
sir, how clean and fresh it is.” 

“ Bless my heart ! And so it is ! No need 
at all for cauterizing. The epidermis will 
close over, and the cutis and the pellis. 
John Ridd, you ought to have studied med- 
icine, with your healing powers. Half my 
virtue lies in touch. A clean and whole- 
some body, sir ; I have taught you the Latin 
grammar. I leave you in excellent hands, 
my dear, and they wait for me at shovel- 
board. Bread -and -water poultice cold, to 
be renewed, tribus horis. John Ridd, I was 
at school with you, and you beat me very 
lamentably when I tried to fight with you. 
You remember me not ? It is likely enough ; 
I am forced to take strong waters, John, from 
infirmity of the liver. Attend to my direc- 
tions, and I will call again in the morning.” 

And in that melancholy plight, cariug 
nothing for business, went one of the clev- 
erest fellows ever known at Tiverton. He 
could write Latin verses a great deal faster 
than I could ever write English prose, and 
nothing seemed too great for him. We 
thought that he would go to Oxford and 
astonish every one, and write in the style of 
Buchanan, but he fell all abroad very lam- 
entably ; and now, when I met him again, 
was come down to push-pin and shovel- 
board, with a wager of spirits pending. 


When Master Huckaback came home, ho 
looked at me very sulkily ; not only because 
of my refusal to become a slave to the gold- 
diggiug, but also because he regarded me as 
the cause of a savage broil between Simon 
Carfax and the men who had cheated him 
as to his Gwenny. However, when Uncle 
Ben saw Ruth, and knew what had befallen 
her, and she with tears in her eyes declared 
that she owed her life to Cousin Ridd, the 
old man became very gracious to me ; for if 
he loved any one on earth, it was his little 
granddaughter. 

I could not stay very long, because my 
horse being quite unfit to travel, from the 
injuries which his violence and vice had 
brought upon him, there was nothing for 
me but to go on foot, as none of Uncle Ben’s 
horses could take me to Plover’s Barrows 
without downright cruelty: and though 
there would be a harvest-moon, Ruth agreed 
with me that I must not keep my mother 
waiting, with no idea where I might be, un- 
til a late hour of the night. I told Ruth 
all about our Annie, and her noble furniture ; 
and the little maid was very lively (although 
her wounds were paining her so that half 
her laughter came “on the wrong side of 
her mouth,” as we rather coarsely express 
it) ; especially she laughed about Annie’s 
new-fangled closet for clothes, or standing- 
press, as she called it. This had frightened 
me so that I would not come without my 
stick to look at it ; for the front was inlaid 
with two fiery dragons, and a glass which 
distorted every thing, making even Annie 
look hideous; and when it was opened, a 
woman’s skeleton, all in white, revealed it- 
self in the midst of three standing women. 
“ It is only to keep my best frocks in shape,” 
Annie had explained to me ; “ hanging them 
up does ruin them so. But I own that I was 
afraid of it, John, until I had got all my best 
clothes there, and then I became very^ond 
of it. But even now it frightens me some- 
times in the moonlight.” 

Having made poor Ruth a little cheer- 
ful, with a full account of all Annie’s frocks, 
material, pattern, and fashion (of which I 
had taken a list for my mother and for Liz- 
zie, lest they should cry out at man’s stupid., 
ity about any thing of real interest), I pro , 
ceeded to tell her about my own troubles, 
and the sudden departure of Lorua ; conclud- 
ing, with all the show of indifference which 
my pride could muster, that now I never 
should see her again, and must do my best 
to forget her, as being so far above me. I 
had not intended to speak of this ; but Ruth’s 
face was so kind and earnest, that I could 
not stop myself. 

“You must not talk like that, Cousin 
Ridd,” she said, in a low and gentle tone, 
and turning away her eyes from me ; “ no 
lady can be above a man who is pure, and 
brave, and gentle. And if her heart be 


LORNA DOONE. 


229 


worth having, she will never let you give 
her up for her grandeur and her nobility.” 

She pronounced those last few words, as 
I thought, with a little bitterness, unper- 
ceived by herself, perhaps, for it was not in 
her appearance. But I, attaching great im- 
portance to a maiden’s opinion about a maid- 
en (because she might judge from experi- 
ence), would have led her farther into that 
subject. But she declined to follow, having 
now no more to say in a matter so removed 
from her. Then I asked her full and straight, 
and looking at her in such a manner that 
she could not look away without appearing 
vanquished by feelings of her own — which 
thing was very vile of me ; but all men are 
so selfish — 

“ Dear cousin, tell me, once for all, what 
is your advice to me ?” 

“ My advice to you,” she answered brave- 
ly, with her dark eyes full of pride, and in- 
stead of flinching, foiling me, “ is to do what 
every man must do, if he would win fair 
maiden. Since she can not send you token, 
neither is free to return to you, follow her; 
pay your court to her ; show that you will 
not be forgotten ; and perhaps she will look 
down — I mean she will relent to you.” 

“ She has nothing to relent about. I 
have never vexed nor injured her. My 
thoughts have never strayed from her. 
There is no one to compare with her.” 

“ Then keep her in that same mind about 
you. See, now, I can advise no more. My 
arm is swelling painfully, in spite of all your 
goodness, and bitter task of surgeonship. 
I shall have another poultice on, and go to 
bed, I think, Cousin Ridd, if you will not 
hold me ungrateful. I am so sorry for your 
long walk. Surely it might be avoided. 
Give my love to dear Lizzie ; oh, the room is 
going round so.” 

And she fainted into the arms of Sally, 
who was come just in time to fetch her. 
No doubt she had been suffering agony all 
the time she talked to me. Leaving word 
that I would come again to inquire fcr her, 
and fetch Kickums home, so soon as the 
harvest permitted me, I gave directions 
about the horse, and striding away from the 
ancient town, was soon upon the moor-lands. 

Now, through the whole of that long walk 
— the latter part of which was led by star- 
light till the moon arose — I dwelt, in my 
young and foolish way, upon the ordering 
of our steps by a Power beyond us. But as 
I could not bring my mind to any clearness 
upon this matter, and the stars shed no light 
upon it, but rather confused me with won- 
dering how their Lord could attend to them 
all, and yet to a puny fool like me it came 
to pass that my thoughts on the subject 
were not worth ink, if I knew them. 

But it is perhaps worth ink to relate, 
so far as I can do so, mother’s delight at 
my return, when she had almost abandoned 


hope, and concluded that I was gone to Lon- 
don, in disgust at her behavior. And now 
she was looking up the lane, at the rise 
of the harvest-moon, in despair, as she said 
afterward. But if she had despaired in 
truth, what use to look at all ? Yet accord- 
ing to the epigram made by a good Blun- 
dellite, 

“Despair was never yet so deep 
In sinking as in seeming; 

Despair is hope just dropp’d asleep, 

Fcr better chance of dreaming.” 

And mother’s dream was a happy one 
when she knew my step at a furlong dis- 
tant ; for the night was of those that carry 
sounds thrice as far as day can. She recov- 
ered herself when she was sure, and even 
made up her mind to scold me, and felt as 
if she could do it. But when she was in my 
arms, into which she threw herself, and I 
by the light of the moon descried the silver 
gleam on one side of her head (now spread- 
ing since Annie’s departure), bless my heart 
and yours therewith, no room was left for 
scolding. She hugged me, and she clung to 
me ; and I looked at her, with duty made 
tenfold, and discharged by love. We said 
nothing to one another, but all was right 
between us. 

Even Lizzie behaved very well, so far as 
her nature admitted ; not even saying a 
nasty thing all the time she was getting my 
supper ready, with a weak imitation of An- 
nie. She knew that the gift of cooking was 
not vouchsafed by God to her ; but some- 
times she would do her best, by intellect, to 
win it. Whereas it is no more to be won 
by intellect than is divine poetry. An 
amount of strong quick heart is needful, 
and the understanding must second it, in 
the one art as in the other. Now my fare 
was vbry choice for the next three days or 
more, yet not turned out like Annie’s. They 
could do a thing well enough on the fire, 
but they could not put it on table so, nor 
even have plates all piping hot. This was 
Annie’s special gift ; born in her, and ready 
to cool with her; like a plate borne away 
from the fire-place. I sighed sometimes 
about Lorna, and they thought it was about 
the plates. And mother would stand and 
look at me, as much as to say, “No pleas- 
ing him ;” and Lizzie would jerk up one 
shoulder, and cry, “He had better have 
Lorna to cook for him ;” while the whole 
truth was that I wanted not to be plagued 
about any cookery, but just to have some- 
thing good and quiet, and then smoke and 
think about Lorna. 

Nevertheless, the time went on, with one 
change and another ; and we gathered all 
our harvest in, and Parson Bowden thanked 
God for it, both in church and out of it ; for 
his tithes would be very goodly. The un- 
matched cold of the previous winter, and 
general fear of scarcity, and our own talk 


230 


LORNA DOONE. 


about our ruin, bad sent prices up to a grand 
high pitch, and we did our best to keep them 
there. For nine Englishmen out of every 
ten believe that a bitter winter must breed 
a sour summer, and explain away topmost 
prices. While according to my experience, 
more often it would be otherwise, except for 
the public thinking so. However, I have 
said too much ; and if any farmer reads my 
book, he will vow that I wrote it for noth- 
ing else except to rob his family. 


CHAPTER LXII. 

THE KING MUST NOT BE PRAYED FOR. 

All our neighborhood was surprised that 
the Doones had not ere now attacked, and 
probably made an end of us. For we lay 
almost at their mercy now, having only Ser- 
geant Bloxham and three men to protect us, 
Captain Stickles having been ordered south- 
ward with all his force, except such as might 
be needful for collecting toll, and watch- 
ing the imports at Lynmouth, and thence 
to Porlock. The Sergeant, having now im- 
bibed a taste for writing reports (though 
his first great effort had done him no good, 
and only offended Stickles), reported week- 
ly from Plover’s Barrows whenever he could 
find a messenger. And though we fed not 
Sergeant Bloxham at our own table with 
the best we had (as in the case of Stickles, 
who represented His Majesty), yet we treat- 
ed him so well that he reported very highly 
of us as loyal and true-hearted lieges, and 
most devoted to our lord the King. And in- 
deed he could scarcely have done less, when 
Lizzie wrote great part of his reports, and 
furbished up the rest to such a pitch of lus- 
tre, that Lord Clarendon himself need’ scarce 
have been ashamed of them. And though 
this cost a great deal of ale, and even of 
strong waters (for Lizzie would have it the 
duty of a critic to stand treat to the au- 
thor), and though it was otherwise a plague, 
as giving the maid such airs of patronage, 
and such pretense to politics, yet there was 
no stopping it, without the risk of mortal 
offense to both writer and reviewer. Our 
mother also, while disapproving Lizzie’s long 
stay in the saddle-room on a Friday night 
and a Saturday, and insisting that Betty 
should be there, was nevertheless as proud 
as need be that the King should read our 
Eliza’s writing — at least so the innocent 
soul believed — and we all looked forward 
to something great as the fruit of all this 
history. And something great did come of 
it, though not as we expected ; for these re- 
ports, or as many of them as were ever open- 
ed, stood us in good stead the next year when 
we were accused of harboring and comfort- 
ing guilty rebels. 

Now the reason why the Doones did not 


attack us was that they were preparing to 
meet another and more powerful assault 
upon their fortress ; being assured that their 
repulse of King’s troops could not be looked 
over when brought before the authorities. 
And no doubt they were right; for although 
the conflicts in the GoA^ernment during that 
summer and autumn had delayed the mat- 
ter, yet positive orders had been issued that 
these outlaws and malefactors should at any 
price be brought to justice, when the sudden 
death of King Charles the Second threw all 
things into confusion, and all minds into a 
panic. 

We heard of it first in church on Sunday, 
the eighth day of February, 1684-5, from a 
cousin of John Fry, who had ridden over on 
purpose from Porlock. He came in just be- 
fore the anthem, splashed and heated from 
his ride, so that every one turned and looked 
at him. He wanted to create a stir (know- 
ing how much would be made of him), and 
he took the best way to do it. For he let 
the anthem go by very quietly — or, rather, I 
should say very pleasingly, for our choir was 
exceeding proud of itself, and I sang bass 
twice as loud as a bull, to beat the clerk 
with the clarionet — and then just as Par- 
son Bowden, with a look of pride at his 
minstrels, was kneeling down to begin the 
prayer for the King’s Most Excellent Majes- 
ty (for he never read the litany except upon 
Easter Sunday), up jumps young Sam Fry, 
and shouts, 

“ I forbid that there prai-er.” 

“ What !” cried the parson, rising slowly, 
and looking for some one to shut the door ; 

“ have we a rebel in the congregation ?” 
For the parson was growing short-sighted 
now, and knew not Sam Fry at that dis- 
tance. 

“ No,” replied Sam, not a whit abashed by 
the staring of all the parish ; “ no rebel, par- 
son ; but a man who mislaiketh popery and 
murder. That there prai-er be a prai-er for 
the dead.” 

“ Nay,” cried the parson, now recognizing 
and knowing him to be our John’s first cous- 
in, “you do not mean to say, Sam, that His 
Gracious Majesty is dead !” 

“Dead as a sto-un: poisoned by they Pa- 
pishers.” Aud Sam rubbed his hands with 
enjoyment at the efiect he had produced. 

“Remember where you are, Sam,” said 
Parson Bowden, solemnly; “when did this 
most sad thing happen ? The King is the 
head of the Church, Sam Fry ; when did His, 
Majesty leave her ?” 

“Day afore yesterday. Twelve o’clock. 
Warn’t us quick to hear of ’un?” 

“ Can’t be,” said the minister ; “ the ti- 
dings can never ha\e come so soon. Any- 
how, he will want it all the more. Let us 
pray for His Gracious Majesty.” 

And with that he proceeded as usual ; but 
nobody cried “ Amen,” for fear of being en- 


LORNA DOONE. 


231 


tangled with popery. But after giving forth 
his text, our parson said a few words out of 
book about the many virtues of His Majesty, 
and self-denial and devotion, comparing his 
pious mirth to the dancing of the patriarch 
David before the ark of the covenant ; and 
he added, with some severity, that if his 
flock would not join their pastor (who was 
much more likely to judge aright) in pray- 
ing for the King, the least they could do on 
returning home was to pray that the King 
might not be dead, as his enemies had as- 
serted. 

Now when the service was over, we killed 
the King, and we brought him to life, at 
least fifty times in the church - yard ; and 
Sam Fry was mounted on a high grave- 
stone, to tell every one all he knew of it. 
But he knew no more than he had told us 
in the church, as before repeated : upon 
which we were much disappointed with him, 
and inclined to disbelieve him, until he hap- 
pily remembered that His Majesty had died 
in great pain, with blue spots on his breast 
and black spots all across his back, and 
these in the form of a cross, by reason of Pa- 
pists having poisoned him. When Sam call- 
ed this to his remembrance (or to his imag- 
ination), he was overwhelmed at once with 
so many invitations to dinner that he scarce 
knew which of them to accept, but decided 
in our favor. 

Grieving much for the loss of the King, 
however greatly it might be (as the parson 
had declared it was, while telling us to pray 
against it) for the royal benefit, I resolved 
to ride to Porlock myself directly after din- 
ner, and make sure whether he were dead 
or not. For it was not by any means hard 
to suppose that Sam Fry, being John’s first 
cousin, might have inherited either from 
grandfather or grandmother some of those 
gifts which had made our John so famous 
for mendacity. At Porlock I found that it 
was too true ; and the women of the town 
were in great distress, for the King had al- 
ways been popular with them: the men, on 
the other hand, were forecasting what would 
be likely to ensue. 

And I myself was of this number, riding 
sadly home again, although bound to the 
King as church-warden now ; which digni- 
ty, next to the parson’s in rank, is with us 
(as it ought to be in every good parish) he- 
reditary. For who can stick to the Church 
like the man whose father stuck to it before 
him ; and who knows all the little ins and 
great outs which must in these troublous 
times come across ? 

But though appointed at last, by virtue 
of being best farmer in the parish (as well 
as by vice of mismanagement on the part of 
my mother, and Nicholas Snowe, who had 
thoroughly muxed up every thing, being 
too quick-headed); yet, while I dwelt with 
pride upon the fact that I stood in the King’s I 


shoes, as the manager and promoter of the 
Church of England ; and I knew that we 
must miss His Majesty (whose arms were 
above the Commandments), as the leader of 
our thoughts in church, and handsome upon 
a guinea, nevertheless I kept on thinking 
how his death would act on me. 

And here I saw it many ways. In the 
first place, troubles must break out ; and we 
had eight-and-twenty ricks, counting grain, 
and straw, and hay. Moreover, mother was 
growing weak about riots, and shooting, 
and burning; and she gathered the bed- 
clothes around her ears every night when 
her feet were tucked up, and prayed not to 
awake until morning. In the next place, 
much rebellion (though we would not own 
it, in either sense of the verb to “own”) 
was whispering, and plucking skirts, and 
making signs among us. And the terror of 
the Doones helped greatly, as a fruitful tree 
of lawlessness, and a good excuse for every 
body. And after this — or rather before it, 
and first of all indeed (if I must state the 
true order) — arose upon me the thought of 
Lorna, and how these things would affect 
her fate. 

And indeed I must admit that it had oc- 
curred to me sometimes, or been suggested 
by others, that the Lady Lorna had not be- 
haved altogether kindly since her departure 
from among us. For although in those days 
the post (as we call the service of letter-car- 
rying, which now comes within twenty miles 
of us) did not extend to our part of the 
world, yet it might have been possible to 
procure for hire a man who would ride post, 
if Lorna feared to trust the pack-horses, or 
the troopers, who went to and fro. Yet no 
message whatever had reached us, neither 
any token even of her safety in London. 
As to this last, however, we had no misgiv- 
ings, having learned from the orderlies more 
than once that the wealth and beauty, and 
adventures of young Lady Lorna Dugal 
were greatly talked of both at court and 
among the common people. 

Now riding sadly homeward, in the sunset 
of the early spring, I was more than ever 
touched with sorrow, and a sense of being, 
as it were, abandoned. And the weather 
growing quite beautiful, and so mild that 
the trees were budding, and the cattle full 
of happiness, I could not but think of the 
difference between the world of to-day and 
the world of this day twelvemonth. Then 
all was howling desolation, all the earth 
blocked up with snow, and all the air with 
barbs of ice as small as splintered needles, 
yet glittering in and out like stars, and gath- 
ering so upon a man (if long he staid among 
them) that they began to weigh him down 
to sleepiness and frozen death. Not a sign 
of life was moving, nor was any change of 
view, unless the wild wind struck the crest 
of some cold drift and bowed it. 


232 


LORNA DOONE. 


Now, on the other hand, all was good. 
The open palm of spring was laid upon the 
yielding of the hills, and each particular val- 
ley seemed to be the glove for a finger. And 
although the sun was low, and dipping in 
the western clouds, the gray light of the sea 
came up and took, and taking, told the spe- 
cial tone of every thing. All this lay upon 
my heart without a word of thinking, spread- 
ing light and shadow there, and the soft 
delight of sadness. Nevertheless, I would it 
were the savage snow around me, and the 
piping of the restless winds, and the death 
of every thing. For in those days I had 
Lorn a. 

Then I thought of promise fair, such as 
glowed around me where the red rocks held 
the sun when he was departed, and the dis- 
tant crags endeavored to retain his memory. 
But as evening spread across them, shading 
with a silent fold, all the color stole away, 
all remembrance waned and died. 

“So has it been with love’,” I thought, 
“and with simple truth and warmth. The 
maid has chosen the glittering stars instead 
of the plain daylight.” 

Nevertheless I would not give in, although 
in deep despondency (especially when I pass- 
ed the place where my dear father had fought 
in vain), and I tried to see things right, and 
then judge aright about them. This, how- 
ever, was more easy to attempt than to 
achieve ; and by the time I came down the 
hill, I was none the wiser. Only I could tell 
my mother that the King was dead for sure ; 
and she would have tried to cry, but for 
thought of her mourning. 

There was not a moment for lamenting. 
All the mourning must be ready (if we cared 
to heat the Snowes) in eight-and-forty hours : 
and although it was Sunday night, mother 
now feeling sure of the thing, sat up with 
Lizzie cutting patterns, and stitching things 
on brown paper, and snipping, and laying 
the fashions down, and requesting all opin- 
ions, yet when given scoruiug them ; inso- 
much that I grew weary even of tobacco 
(which had comforted me since Lorna), and 
prayed her to go on until the King should 
be alive again. 

The thought of that so flurried her — for 
she never yet could see a joke — that she laid 
her scissors on the table and said, “ The 
Lord forbid, John, after what I have cut 
up !” 

“It would be just like him,” I answered, 
with a knowing smile. “ Mother, you had 
better stop. Patterns may do very well, but 
don’t cut up any more good stuff.” 

“ Well, good lack, I am a fool ! Three ta- 
bles pegged with needles ! The Lord in His 
J mercy keep His Majesty, if ever He hath got- 
ten him !” 

By this device we went to bed ; and not 
another stitch was struck until the troopers 
had office -tidings that the King was truly 


dead. Hence the Snowes beat us by a day; 
and both old Betty and Lizzie laid the blame 
upon me, as usual. 

Almost before we had put off the mourn- 
ing, which as loyal subjects we kept for the 
King three months and a week, rumors of 
disturbances, of plottings, and of outbreak 
began to stir among us. We heard of fight- 
ing in Scotland, and buying of ships on the 
Continent, and of arms in Dorset and Som- 
erset ; and we kept our beacon in readiness 
to give signals of a landing ; or, rather, the 
soldiers did. For we, having trustworthy 
reports that the King had been to high mass 
himself in the Abbey of Westminster, mak- 
ing all the bishops go with him, and all the 
guards in London, and then tortured all the 
Protestants who dared to wait outside, more- 
over had received from the Pope a flower 
growd in the Virgin Mary’s garden, and war- 
ranted to last forever, we of the moderate 
party, hearing all this and ten times as much, 
and having no love for this sour James such 
as we had for the lively Charles, were ready 
to wait for what might happen, rather than 
care about stopping it. Therefore we list- 
ened to rumors gladly, and shook our heads 
with gravity, aud predicted every man some- 
thing, but scarce auy two the same. Nev- 
ertheless, in our part, things went on as 
usual, until the middle of June was nigh. 
We plowed the ground, and sowed the corn, 
and tended the cattle, and heeded every one 
his neighbor’s business, as carefully as here- 
tofore ; and the ouly thing that moved us 
much was that Annie had a baby. This be- 
ing a very fine child with blue eyes, and 
christened “John” in compliment to me, 
and with me for his godfather, it is natural 
to suppose that I thought a good deal about 
him ; and when mother or Lizzie would ask 
me all of a sudden, and treacherously, when 
the fire flared up at supper-time (for we al- 
ways kept a little wood just alight in sum- 
mer-time, and enough to make the pot boil), 
then when they would say to me, “John, 
what are you thinking of? At a word, 
speak !” I would always answer, “ Little 
John Faggus;” and so they made no more 
of me. 

But when I was down on Saturday, the 
thirteenth of June, at the blacksmith’s forge 
by Brendon town, where the Lynn-stream 
runs so close that he dips his horseshoes in 
it, and where the news is apt to come first 
of all our neighborhood (except upon a Sun- 
day), w'hile we were talking of the hay crop^ 
and of a great sheep-stealer, round the cor- 
ner came a man upon a piebald horse look- 
ing flagged and weary. But seeing half a 
dozen of us, young, and brisk, and hearty, 
he made a flourish with his horse, and waved 
a blue flag vehemently, shouting, with great 
glory, 

“Monmouth and the Protestant faith! 
Monmouth and no Popery ! Monmouth, 


LORNA DOONE. 


233 


the good King’s eldest son ! Down with the 
poisoning murderer! Down with the black 
usurper, and to the devil with all papists !” 

“Why so, thou little varlet?” I asked 
very quietly ; for the man was too small to 
quarrel with ; yet knowing Lorua to he a 
“ papist,” as we choose to call them — though 
they might as well call us “ kingists,” after 
the head of our Church — I thought that this 
scurvy, scampish knave might show them 
the way to the place he mentioned, unless 
his courage failed him. 

“Papist yourself, be you?” said the fel- 
low, not daring to answer much ; “ then take 
this, and read it.” 

And he handed me a long rigmarole, which 
he called a “ Declaration.” I saw that it 
was but a heap of lies, and thrust it into the 
blacksitii til’s fire, and blew the bellows thrice 
at it. No one dared attempt to stop me, for 
my mood had not been sweet of late ; and 
of course they knew my strength. 

The man rode on with a muttering noise, 
having won no recruits from us, by force of 
my example ; and he stopped at the ale- 
house farther down, where the road goes 
away from the Lynn-stream. Some of us 
went thither after a time, when our horses 
were shodden and rasped ; for although we 
might not like the man, we might be glad 
of his tidings, which seemed to be something 
wonderful. He had set up his blue flag in 
the tap-room, and was teaching every one. 

“Here coom’th Maister Jan Ridd,” said 
the landlady, being well pleased with the 
call for beer and cider ; “ her hath been to 
Lunnon-town, and live within a maile of 
me. Arl the news coom from them nowa- 
days, instead of from here, as her ought to 
do. If Jan Ridd say it be true, I will try 
a’most*to belave it. Hath the good Duke 
landed, sir ?” And she looked at me over a 
foaming cup, and blew the froth off, and put 
more in. 

“ I have no doubt it is true enough,” I an 
swered, before drinking; “and too true, 
Mistress Pugsley. Many a poor man will 
die ; but none shall die from our parish, nor 
from Brendon, if I can help it.” 

And I knew that I could help it ; for ev- 
ery one in those little places would abide 
by my advice ; not only from the fame of 
my schooling and long sojourn in London, 
but also because I had earned repute for be- 
ing very “slow and sure;” and with nine 
people out of ten this is the very best rec- 
ommendation. For they think themselves 
much before you in wit, and under no obli- 
gation, but rather conferring a favor by do- 
ing the thing that you do. Hence, if I cared 
for influence — which means, for the most 
part, making people do one’s will without 
knowing it — my first step toward it would 
be to be called, in common parlance, “ slow 
but sure.” 

For the next fortnight we were daily 


troubled with conflicting rumors, each man 
relating what he desired, rather than what 
he had right to believe. We were told that 
the Duke had been proclaimed King of En- 
gland in every town of Dorset and of Som- 
erset ; that he had won a great battle at 
Axminster, and another at Bridport, and 
another somewhere else ; that all the west- 
ern counties had risen as one man for him, 
and all the militia joined his ranks ; that 
Taunton, and Bridgewater, and Bristowo 
were all mad with delight, the two former 
being in his hands, and the latter craving 
to be so. And then, on the other hand, we 
heard that the Duke had been vanquished 
and put to flight, and, upon being appre- 
hended, had confessed himself an impostor, 
and a papist as bad as the King was. 

We longed for Colonel Stickles (as lie al- 
ways became in time of war, though he fell 
back to Captain, and even Lieutenant, di- 
rectly the fight was over), for then we should 
have won trusty news, as well as good con- 
sideration. But even Sergeant Bloxam , much 
against his will, was gone, having left liis 
heart with our Lizzie, and a collection of all 
his writings. All the soldiers had been or- 
dered away at full speed for Exeter, to join 
the Duke of Albemarle, or, if he were gone, 
to follow him. As for us, who had fed them 
so long (although not quite for nothing), we 
must take our chance of Doones, or any oth- 
er enemies. 

Now all these tidings moved me a little ; 
not enough to spoil appetite, but enough to 
make things lively, and to teach me that look 
of wisdom which is bred of practice only, 
and the hearing of many lies. Therefore I 
withheld my judgment, fearing to be tri- 
umphed over, if it should happen to miss the 
mark. But mother and Lizzie, ten times in 
a day, predicted all they could imagine ; and 
their prophecies increased in strength ac- 
cording to contradiction. Yet this was not 
in the proper style for a house like ours, 
which knew the news, or at least had known 
it, and still was famous all around for the 
last advices. Even from Lynmouth people 
sent up to Plover’s Barrows to ask how 
things were going on; and it was very 
grievous to answer that in truth we knew 
not, neither had heard for days and days ; 
and our reputation was so great, especially 
since the death of the King had gone abroad 
from Oare parish, that many inquirers would 
only wink, and lay a finger on the lip, as if 
to say, “ You know well enough, but see not 
fit to tell me.” And before the end arrived, 
those people believed that they had been 
right all along, and that we had concealed 
the truth from them. 

For I myself became involved (God knows 
how much against my will and my proper 
judgment) in the troubles, and the conflict, 
and the cruel work coming afterward. If 
ever I had made up my mind to any thing 


234 


LORNA DOONE. 


in all my life, it was at this particular time, 
and as stern and strong as could be. I had 
resolved to let things pass — to hear about 
them gladly, to encourage all my friends to 
talk, and myself to express opinion upon 
each particular point, when in the fullness 
of time no further doubt could be. But all 
my policy went for nothing, through a few 
touches of feeling. 

One day at the beginning of July I came 
home from mowing about noon, or a little 
later, to fetch some cider for all of us, and to 
eat a morsel of bacon. For mowiug was no 
joke that year, the summer being wonder- 
fully wet (even for our wet country), and 
the swathe falling heavier over the scythe 
than ever I could remember it. We were 
drenched with rain almost every day; but 
the mowing must be done somehow, and we 
must trust to God for the hay-making. 

In the court-yard I saw a little cart, with 
iron breaks underneath it, such as fastidious 
people use to deaden the jolting of the road; 
but few men under a lord or baronet would 
be so particular. Therefore I wondered who 
our noble visitor could be. But when I en- 
tered the kitchen-place, brushing up my hair 
for somebody, behold it was no one greater 
than our Annie, with my godson in her arms, 
and looking pale and tear-begone. And at 
first she could not speak to me. But pres- 
ently having sat down a little, and received 
much praise for her baby, she smiled and 
blushed, and found her tongue as if she had 
never gone from us. 

“How natural it all looks again! Oh, I 
love this old kitchen so ! Baby dear, only 
look at it wid him pitty pitty eyes, and him 
tongue out of his mousy ! But who put the 
flour-riddle up there ? And look at the pes- 
tle and mortar, and rust, I declare, in the 
patty-pans ! And a book, positively a dirty 
book, where the clean skewers ought to 
hang ! Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie !” 

“You may just as well cease lamenting,” 
I said, “ for you can’t alter Lizzie’s nature, 
and you will only make mother uncomforta- 
ble, and perhaps have a quarrel with Lizzie, 
who is proud as Punch of her housekeeping.” 

“ She !” cried Annie, with all the contempt 
that could be compressed in a syllable. 
“ Well, John, no doubt you are right about 
it. I will try not to notice things. But it 
is a hard thing, after all my care, to see ev- 
ery thing going to ruin. But what can be 
expected of a girl who knows all the kings 
of Carthage ?” 

“ There were no kings of Carthage, Annie. 
They were called, why let me see — they were 
called — oh, something else.” 

“ Never mind what they were called,” said 
Annie ; “ will they cook our dinner for us ? 
But now, John, I am in such trouble. All 
this talk is make-believe.” 

“ Don’t you cry, my dear : don’t cry, my 
darling sister,” I answered, as she dropped 


into the worn place of the settle, and bent 
above her infant, rocking as if both their 
hearts were one; “don’t you know, Annie, I 
can not tell, but I know, or at least I mean, 
I have heard the men of experience say it is 
so bad for the baby.” 

“ Perhaps I know that as well as you do, 
John,” said Annie, looking up at me with a 
gleam of her old laughing; “but how can I 
help crying ? I am in such trouble.” 

“ Tell me what it is, my dear. Any grief 
of yours will vex me greatly ; but I will try 
to bear it.” 

“Then, John, it is just this. Tom has 
gone off with the rebels ; and you must, oh, 
you must go after him.” 


CHAPTER LXIII. 

JOHN IS WORSTED BY THE WOMEN. 

Moved as I was by Annie’s tears and 
gentle style of coaxing, and most of all by 
my love for her, I yet declared that I could 
not go, and leave our house and homestead, 
far less my dear mother and Lizzie, at the 
mercy of the merciless Doones. 

“ Is that all your objection, John ?” asked 
Annie, in her quick panting way ; “ would 
you go but for that, John?” 

“ Now,” I said, “ be in no such hurry ” — 
for while I was gradually yielding, I liked 
to pass it through my fingers, as if my fin- 
gers shaped it ; “ there are many things to 
be thought about, and many ways of view- 
ing it.” 

“Oh, you never can have loved Lorna! 
No wonder you gave her up so ! Johu, you 
can love nobody but your oat-ricks and your 
hay-ricks.” 

“ Sister mine, because I rant not, neither 
rave of what I feel, can yon be so shallow as 
to dream that I feel nothing ? What is your 
love for Tom Faggus? What is your love 
for your baby (pretty darling as he is), to 
compare with such a love as forever dwells 
with me ? Because I do not prate of it ; 
because it is beyond me, not only to express, 
but even form to my own heart in thoughts ; 
because I do not shape my face, and would 
scorn to play to it, as a thing of acting, and 
lay it out before you, are you fools enough 
to think — ” but here I stopped, having said 
more than was usual with me. 

“I am very sorry, John. Dear John, I 
am so sorry. What a shallow fool I am !” 

“I will go seek your husband,” I said, 
to change the subject, for even to Annie I 
would not lay open all my heart about Lor- 
na, “ but only upon condition that you in- 
sure this house and people from the Doones 
meanwhile. Even for the sake of Tom, I 
can not leave all helpless. The oat -ricks 
and the hay-ricks, which are my only love, 
they are welcome to make cinders of. But 


LORNA DOONE. 


235 


I will not liave mother treated so ; nor even 
little Lizzie, although you scorn your sis- 
ter so.” 

“Oh, John, I do think you are the hard- 
est, as well as the softest, of all the men I 
know. Not even a woman’s hitter word but 
what you pay her out for. Will you never 
understand that we are not like you, John? 
We say all sorts of spiteful things, with- 
out a hit of meaning. John, for God’s sake 
fetch Tom home; and then revile me as you 
please, and I will kneel and thank you.” 

“ I will not promise to fetch him home,” I 
answered, being ashamed of myself for hav- 
ing lost command so, “but I will promise 
to do my best, if we can only hit on a plan 
for leaving mother harmless.” 

Annie thought for a little while, trying to 
gather her smooth clear brow into maternal 
wrinkles, and then she looked at her child, 
and said, “ I will risk it, for daddy’s sake, 
darling ; you precious soul, for daddy’s sake.” 
I asked her what she was going to risk. 
She would not tell me ; but took upper 
hand, and saw to my cider-cans and bacon, 
and went from corner to cupboard, exactly 
as if she had never been married, only with- 
out an apron on. And then she said, “ Now 
to your mowers, John ; and make the most 
of this fine afternoon ; kiss your godson be- 
fore you go.” And I, being used to obey her 
in little things of that sort, kissed the baby, 
and took my cans, and went back to my 
scythe again. 

By the time I came home it was dark 
night, and pouring again with a foggy rain 
such as we have in July, even more than 
in January. Being soaked all through and 
through, and with water quelching in my 
boots like a pump with a bad bucket, I was 
only too glad to find Annie’s bright face 
and quick figure flitting in and out the fire- 
light, instead of Lizzie sitting grandly, with 
a feast of literature, and not a drop of gravy. 
Mother was in the corner also, with her 
cherry-colored ribbons glistening very nice 
by candle-light, looking at Annie now and 
then with memories of her babyhood, and 
then at her having a baby ; yet half afraid 
of praising her much, for fear of that young 
Lizzie. But Lizzie showed no jealousy. 
She truly loved our Annie (now that she 
was gone from us), and she wanted to know 
all sorts of things, and she adored the baby. 
Therefore Annie was allowed to attend to 
me as she used to do. 

“ Now, John, you must start the first thing 
in the morning,” she said, when the others 
had left the room, but somehow she stuck to 
the baby, “ to fetch me back my rebel, ac- 
cording to your promise.” 

“Not so,” I replied, misliking the job; 
“all I promised was to go, if this house 
was assured against any onslaught of the 
Doones.” 

“Just so; and here is that assurance.” 


With these words she drew forth a paper, 
and laid it on my knee with triumph, enjoy- 
ing my amazement. This, as you may sup- 
pose, was great ; not only at the document, 
but also at her possession of it. For in truth 
it was no less than a formal undertaking on 
the part of the Doones not to attack Plover’s 
Barrows farm, or molest any of the inmates, 
or carry off any chattels, during the absence 
of John Ridd upon a special errand. This 
document was sigued not only by the Coun- 
selor, but by many other Doones : whether ' 
Carver’s name were there, I could not say 
for certain, as of course he would not sign it 
under his name of “ Carver,” and I had nev- 
er heard Lorna say to what (if any) he had 
been baptized. 

In the face of such a deed as this, I could 
no longer refuse to go ; and having received 
my promise, Annie told me (as was only 
fair) how she had procured that paper. It 
was both a clever and courageous act, and 
would have seemed to me, at first sight, far 
beyond Annie’s power. But none may gauge 
a woman’s power when her love and faith 
are moved. 

The first thing Annie had done was this: 
she made herself look ugly. This was not 
an easy thing ; but she had learned a great 
deal from her husband upon the subject of 
disguises. It hurt her feelings not a little 
to make so sad a fright of herself ; but what 
could it matter ? — if she lost Tom, she must 
be a far greater fright in earnest, than now 
she was in seeming. And then she left 
her child asleep, under Betty Muxworthy’s 
tendance — for Betty took to that child as 
if there never had been a child before — and 
away she went in her own “spring-cart” 
(as the name of that engine proved to be), 
without a word to any one, except the old 
man who had driven her from Molland par- 
ish that morning, and who coolly took one 
of our best horses, without “ by your leave ” 
to any one. 

Annie made the old man drive her with- 
in easy reach of the Doone-gate, whose po- 
sition she knew well enough, from all our 
talk about it. And there she bade the old 
man stay until she should return to him. 
Then, with her comely figure hidden by a 
dirty old woman’s cloak, and her fair young 
face defaced by patches and by liniments, 
so that none might covet her, she addressed 
the young men at the gate in a cracked and 
trembling voice ; and they were scarcely civ- 
il to the “ old hag,” as they called her. She 
said that she bore important tidings for Sir 
Counselor himself, and must be conducted 
to him. To him, accordingly, she was led, 
without even any hoodwinking ; for she had 
spectacles over her eyes, and made believe 
not to see ten yards. 

She found Sir Counselor at home, and 
when the rest were out of sight threw off 
all disguise to him, flashing forth as a love- 


236 


LORNA DOONE. 


ly young woman, from all her wraps and 
disfigurements. She flung her patches on 
the floor, amidst the old man’s laughter, and 
let her tucked-up hair come down, and then 
went up and kissed him. 

“ Worthy and reverend Counselor, I have 
a favor to ask,” she began. 

“So I should think from your proceed- 
ings,” the old man interrupted ; “ ah, if I 
were half my age — ” 

“ If you were, I would not sue so. But 
most excellent Counselor, you owe me some 
amends, you know, for the way in which you 
robbed me.” 

“Beyond a doubt I do, my dear. You 
have put it rather strongly, and it might of- 
fend some people. Nevertheless I own my 
debt, having so fair a creditor.” 

“And do you remember how you slept, 
and how much we made of you, and would 
have seen you home, sir, only vou did not 
wish it ?” 

“And for excellent reasons, child. My 
best escort was in my cloak, after we made 
the cream to rise. Ha, ha! The unholy 
spell. My pretty child, has it injured you ?” 

“Yes, I fear it has,” said Annie; “or 
whence can all my ill luck come?” And 
here she showed some signs of crying, 
knowing that Counselor hated it. 

“ You shall not haA r e ill luck, my dear. I 
have heard all about your marriage to a very 
noble highwayman. Ah ! you made a mis- 
take in that ; you were worthy of a Doone, 
my child ; your frying was a blessing meant 
for those who can appreciate.” 

“My husband can appreciate,” she an- 
swered, very proudly ; “ but what I wish to 
know is this, will you try to help me ?” 

The Counselor answered that he would 
do so, if her needs were moderate ; where- 
upon she opened her meaning to him, and 
told of all her anxieties. Considering that 
Lorna was gone, and her necklace in his 
possession, and that I (against whom alone 
of us the Doones could bear any malice) 
would be out of the way all the while, the 
old man readily undertook that our house 
should not be assaulted, nor our property 
molested, until my return. And to the 
promptitude of his pledge two things per- 
haps contributed, namely, that he knew not 
how we were stripped of all defenders, and 
that some of his own forces were away in 
the rebel camp. For (as I learned there- 
after) the Doones being now in direct feud 
with the present Government, and sure to 
be crushed if that prevailed, had resolved 
to drop all religious questions, and cast in 
their lot with Monmouth. And the turbu- 
lent youths, being long restrained from their 
wonted outlet for vehemence by the troop- 
ers in the neighborhood, were only too glad 
to rush forth upon any promise of blows and 
excitement. 

However, Annie knew little of this, but 


took the Counselor’s pledge as a mark of 
especial favor in her behalf (which it may 
have been, to some extent), and thanked 
him for it most heartily, and felt that he 
had earned the necklace ; while he, like an 
ancient gentleman, disclaimed all obligation, 
and sent her under an escort safe to her own 
cart again. But Annie, repassing the senti- 
nels, with her youth restored and blooming 
with the flush of triumph, went up to them 
very gravely, and said, “ The old hag wishes 
you good-evening, gentlemen ;” and so made 
her best courtesy. 

Now, look at it as I would, there was no 
excuse left for me after the promise given. 
Dear Annie had not only cheated the Doones, 
but also had gotten the best of me, by a 
pledge to a thing impossible. And I bit- 
terly "said, “ I am not like Lorna; a pledge 
once given, I keep it.” 

“I will not have a word against Lorna,” 
cried Annie; “I will answer for her truth 
as surely as I would for my own or yours, 
John.” And with that she vanquished me. 

But when my poor mother heard that I 
; was committed, by word of honor, to a wild- 
j goose chase among the rebels after that ren- 
egade Tom Faggus, she simply stared, and 
would not believe it. For lately I had joked 
with her, in a little style of jerks, as people 
do when out of sorts ; and she, not under- 
| standing this, and knowing jokes to be out 
of my power, would only look, and sigh, and 
toss, and hope that I meant nothing. At 
last, however, we convinced her that I was 
in earnest, and must be off in the early morn- 
ing, and leave John Fry with the hay crop. 

Then mother was ready to fall upon An- 
nie, as not content with disgracing us, by 
wedding a man of new honesty (if indeed 
of any), but laying traps to catch her broth- 
er, and entangle him, perhaps, to his death, 
for the sake of a worthless fellow ; and “ fel- 
on ” — she was going to say, as by the shape 
of her lips I knew. But I laid my hand upon 
dear mother’s lips, because what must be 
must be ; and if mother and daughter staid 
at home, better in love than in quarreling. 

Right early in the morning I was off, 
without word to any one, knowing that 
mother and sister mine had cried each her 
good self to sleep ; relenting when the light 
was out, and sorry for hard words and 
i thoughts, and yet too much alike in nature 
to understand each other. Therefore I took 
good Kickums, who (although with one eye 
spoiled) was worth ten sweet - tempered 
horses to a man who knew how to manage 
him ; and being well charged both with ba- 
: con and powder, forth I set on my wild- 
goose chase. 

For this I claim no bravery. I cared but 
little what came of it, save for mother’s sake 
and Annie’s, and the keeping of the farm, 
and discomfiture of the Snowes, and lament- 
ing of Lorna at my death, if die I must in a 


LORNA DOONE. 


237 


lonesome manner, not found out till after- 
ward, and bleaching bones left to weep over. 
However, I had a little kettle, and a pound 
and a half of tobacco, and two dirty pipes 
and a clean one ; also a bit of clothes for 
ehange, also a brisket of hung venison, and 
four loaves of farm-house bread, and of the 
upper side 'of bacon a stone and a half it 
might be, not to mention divers small things 
for campaigning, which may come in hand- 
ily when no one else has gotten them. 

We went away in merry style ; my horse 
being ready for any thing, and I only glad 
of a bit of change, after months of work- 
ing and brooding, with no content to crown 
the work, no hope to hatch the brooding, or 
without hatching to reckon it. Who could 
tell but what Lorna might be discovered, or 
at any rate heard of, before the end of this 
eampaign ; if campaign it could be called of 
a man who went to fight nobody, only to re- 
deem a renegade ? And vexed as I was about 
the hay, and the hunch-backed ricks John 
was sure to make (which spoil the look of a 
farm -yard), still even this was better than 
to have the mows and houses fired, as I had 
nightly expected, and been worn out with 
the worry of it. 

Yet there was one thing rather unfavor- 
able to my present enterprise, namely, that 
I knew nothing of the country I was bound 
to, nor even in what part of it my business 
might be supposed to lie. For besides the 
uncertainty caused by the conflict of re- 
ports, it was likely that King Monmouth’s 
army would be moving from place to place, 
according to the prospect of supplies and 
of re-enforcements. However, there would 
arise more chance of getting news as I went 
on : and my road being toward the east and 
south, Dulverton would not lie so very far 
aside of it, but what it might be worth a 
visit, both to collect the latest tidings and 
to consult the maps and plans in Uncle Reu- 
ben’s parlor. Therefore I drew the off-hand 
rein at the cross-road on the hill, and made 
for the town, expecting, perhaps, to have 
breakfast with Master Huckaback, and Ruth 
to help and encourage us. This little maid- 
en was now become a very great favorite 
with me, having long outgrown, no doubt, 
her childish fancies and follies, such as my 
mother and Annie had planted under her 
soft brown hair. It had been my duty, as 
well as my true interest (for Uncle Ben was 
more and more testy, as he went on gold- 
digging) to ride thither now and again, to 
inquire what the doctor thought of her. 
Not that her wounds were long in healing, 
but that people can scarcely be too careful 
and too inquisitive, after a great horse-bite. 
And she always let me look at the arm, as 
I had been first doctor ; and she held it up 
in a graceful manner, curving at the elbow, 
and with a sweep of white roundness going 
.to a wrist the size of my thumb or so, and 


without any thimble -top standing forth, 
such as even our Annie had. But gradual- 
ly all I could see above the elbow, where 
the bite had been, was very clear, transpar- 
ent skin, with very firm sweet flesh below, 
and three little blue marks as far asunder as 
the prongs of a toasting-fork, and no deeper 
than where a twig has chafed the peel of a 
waxen apple. And then I used to say in 
fun, as the children do, “ Shall I kiss it to 
make it well, dear?” 

Now Ruth looked very grave indeed, upon 
hearing of this my enterprise ; and crying, 
said she could almost cry for the sake of my 
dear mother. Did I know the risks and 
chances, not of the battle-field alone, but of 
the havoc afterward — the swearing away 
of innocent lives, and the hurdle, and the 
hanging? And if I would please not to 
laugh (which was so uukind of me), had I 
never heard of imprisonments, and tortur- 
ing with the cruel boot, and selling into 
slavery, where the sun and the lash outvied 
one another in cutting a man to pieces ? I 
replied that of all these things I had heard, 
and would take especial care to steer me 
free of all of them. My duty was all that I 
wished to do, and none could harm me for 
doing that. And I begged mjr cousin to 
give me good-speed, instead of talking dole- 
fully. Upon this she changed her manner 
wholly, becoming so lively and cheerful that 
I was convinced of her indifference, and sur- 
prised even more than gratified. 

“ Go and earn your spurs, Cousin Ridd,” 
she said ; “ you are strong enough for any 
thing. Which side is to have the benefit of 
your doughty arm ?” 

“ Have I not told you, Ruth,” I answered, 
not being fond of this kind of talk, more 
suitable for Lizzie, “ that I do not mean to 
join either side, that is to say, until — ” 

“ Until, as the common proverb goes, you 
know which way the cat will jump. Oh, 
John Ridd ! Oh, John Ridd !” 

“ Nothing of the sort,” said I ; “ what a hur- 
ry you are in ! I am for the King, of course.” 

“ But not enough to fight for him. Only 
enough to vote, I suppose, or drink his 
health, or shout for him.” 

“ 1 can’t make you out to - day, Cousin 
Ruth ; you are nearly as bad as Lizzie. You 
do not say any bitter things, but you seem 
to mean them.” 

“ No, cousin, think not so of me. It is fat 
more likely that I say them, without mean- 
ing them.” 

“Anyhow, it is not like you. And I know 
not what I can have done in any way to 
vex you.” 

“ Dear me, nothing, Cousin Ridd; you nev- 
er do any thing to vex me.” 

“Then I hope I shall do something now, 
Ruth, when I say good-bye. God knows if 
we ever shall meet again, Ruth ; but I hope 
we may.” 


238 


LORNA DOONE. 


“ To be sure we shall,” she answered, in 
her brightest manner. “Try not to look 
wretched, John ; you are as happy as a 
May-pole.” 

“And you as a rose in May,” I said ; “ and 
pretty nearly as pretty. Give my love to 
Uncle Ben ; and I trust him to keep on the 
winning side.” 

“ Of that you need have no misgiving. 
Never yet has he failed of it. Now, Cousin 
Ridd, w r hy go you not ? You hurried me so 
at breakfast-time.” 

“ My ouly reason for waiting, Ruth, is that 
you have not kissed me, as you are almost 
bound to do, for the last time, perhaps, of 
seeing me.” 

“ Oh, if that is all, just fetch the stool, and 
I will do my best, cousin.” 

“ I pray you be not so vexatious ; you al- 
ways used to do it nicely without any stool, 
Ruth.” 

“ Ah ! but you are grown since then, and 
become a famous man, John Ridd, and a 
member of the nobility. Go your way, and 
win your spurs. I want no lip-service.” 

Being at the end of my wits, I did even 
as she ordered me. At least I had no spurs 
to win, because there were big ones on my 
boots, paid for in the Easter bill, aud made 
by a famous saddler, so as never to clog 
with marsh-weed, but prick as hard as any 
horse in reason could desire. And Kickums 
never wanted spurs, but always went tail- 
foremost, if any body offered them for his 
consideration. 


CHAPTER LXIY. 

SLAUGHTER IN THE MARSHES. 

We rattled away, at a merry pace, out of 
the town of Dulverton ; my horse being gay- 
ly fed, and myself quite fit again for going. 
Of course I was puzzled about Cousin Ruth, 
for her behavior was not at all such as I had 
expected ; and indeed I had hoped for a far 
more loving and moving farew r ell than I got 
from her. But I said to myself, “ It is use- 
less ever to count upon what a woman will 
do ; and I think that I must have vexed her 
almost as much as she vexed me. And now 
to see what comes of it.” So I put my horse 
across the moor-land, and he threw his chest 
out bravely. 

Now if I tried to set down at length all 
the things that happened to me upon this 
adventure, every in and out, and up and 
down, and to and fro, that occupied me, to- 
gether with the things I saw and the things 
I heard of, however much the wiser people 
might applaud my narrative, it is likely 
enough that idle readers might exclaim, 
“ What ails this man ? Knows he not that 
men of parts, and of real understanding, 
have told us all we care to hear of that 


miserable business. Let him keep to his. 
farm and bacon, his wrestling and constant 
feeding.” 

Fearing to meet with such rebuffs (which 
after my death would vex me), I will try to 
set down only what is needful for my story, 
and the clearing of my character, and the 
good name of our parish. But fhe manner 
in which I was bandied about, by false in- 
formation, from pillar to post, or at other 
times driven quite out of my way by the 
presence of the King’s soldiers, may be 
known by the names of the following 
towns, to which I was sent in succession: 
Bath, Frome, Wells, Wincanton, Glaston- 
bury, Shepton, Bradford, Axbridge, Somer- 
ton, and Bridgewater. 

This last place I reached on a Sunday 
night, the fourth or fifth of July, I think — 
or it might be the sixth, for that matter ; in- 
asmuch as I had been too much worried to 
get the day of the month at church. Only 
I know that my horse aud myself were glad 
to come to a decent place, where meat and 
corn could be had for money ; and being 
quite weary of wandering about, we hoped 
to rest there a little. 

Of this, however, we found no chance, for 
the town was full of the good Duke’s sol- 
diers ; if men may be called so the half of 
whom had never been drilled, nor had fired, 
a gun. And it was rumored among them 
that the “popish army,” as they called it, 
was to be attacked that very night, and, 
with God’s assistance, beaten. However, 
by this time I had been taught to pay lit- 
tle attention to rumors ; and having sought 
vainly for Tom Faggus among these poor 
rustic warriors, I took to my hostel, and 
went to bed, being as weary as weary can 
be. 

Falling asleep immediately, I took heed 
of nothing ; although the town was all alive, 
and lights had come glancing, as I lay down, 
aud shouts making echo all round my room. 
But all I did was to bolt the door ; not an 
inch would I budge unless the house, and 
even my bed, -were on fire. And so for sev- 
eral hours I lay, in the depth of the deepest 
slumber, without even a dream on its sur- 
face, until I was roused aud awakened at 
last by a pushing, and pulling, and pinch- 
ing, and a plucking of hair out by the roots. 
And at length, being able to open mine eyes, 
I saw the old landlady, with a candle, heav- 
ily wondering at me. 

“ Can’t you let me alone ?” I grumbled ; 
“I have paid for my bed, mistress, and I 
won’t get up for any one.” 

“Would to God, young man,” she answer- 
ed, shaking me as hard as ever, “ that the 
popish soldiers may sleep this night only 
half as strong as thou dost! Fie on thee, 
fie on thee ! Get up, and go fight : we can 
hear the battle already ; and a man of thy 
size mought stop a cannon.” 


LORNA DOONE. 


239 


“I would rather stop abed,” said I; 
u what have I to do with fighting? I am 
for King James, if any.” 

“ Then thou mayest even stop abed,” the 
old woman muttered, sulkily. “A would 
never have labored half au hour to awake a 
Papisher. But hearken you oue thing, young 
man ; Zummerzett thou art, by thy brogue ; 
or at least by thy understanding of it ; no 
Zummerzett maid will look at thee, in spite 
of thy size and stature, unless thou strikest 
a blow this night.” 

“ I lack no Zummerzett maid, mistress ; I 
have a fairer than your brown things, and 
for her alone Avould I strike a blow.” 

At this the old woman gave me up, as 
being beyond correction : and it vexed me a 
little that my great fame had not reached 
so far as Bridgewater, when I thought that 
it went to Bristowe. But those people in 
East Somerset knew nothing about wrest- 
ling. Devon is the head-quarters of the art, 
and Devon is the county of my chief love. 
Howbeit, my vanity was moved by this slur 
upon it, for I had told her my name was 
“John Ridd,” when I had a gallon of ale 
with her ere ever I came up stairs ; and she 
had nodded in such a manner that I thought 
she knew both name and fame ; and here 
was I, not only shaken, pinched, and with 
many hairs pulled out, in my first good sleep 
for a week, but also abused, and taken 
amiss, and (which vexed me most of all) un- 
known. 

Now there is nothing like vanity to keep 
a man awake at night, however he be weary ; 
and most of all, when he believes that he is 
doing something great — this time, if never 
done before — yet other people will not see, 
except what they may laugh at; and so be 
far above him, and sleep themselves the hap- 
pier. Therefore their sleep robs his own; for 
all things play so, in and out (with the god- 
ly and ungodly ever moving in a balance, 
as they have done in my time, almost every 
year or two), all things have such nice re- 
ply of produce to the call for it, aud such 
a spread across the world, giving here and 
taking there, yet on the whole pretty even, 
that haply sleep itself has but a certain 
stock, and keeps in hand, and sells to flat- 
tered (which cau pay) that which flattened 
vanity can not pay, and will not sue for. 

Be that as it may, I was by this time wide 
awake, though much aggrieved at feeling 
so, and through the open window heard the 
distant roll of musketry, and the beating 
of drums, with a quick rubadub, and the 
“come round the corner” of trumpet-call. 
And perhaps Tom Faggus might be there, 
and shot at any moment, and my dear Annie 
left a poor widow, and my godson Jack an 
orphan, without a tooth to help him. 

Therefore I reviled myself for all my heavy 
laziness; and partly through good honest 
will, and partly through the stings of pride, 


and yet a little, perhaps, by virtue of a young 
man’s love of riot up I arose, and dressed 
myself, and woke Kickums (who was snor- 
ing), and set out to see the worst of it. The 
sleepy hostler scratched his poll, and could 
not tell me which way to take ; what odds 
to him who was King or Pope, so long as he 
paid his way, and got a bit of bacon on Sun- 
day ? And would I please to remember that 
I had roused him up at night, and the qual- 
ity always made a point of paying fout 
times over for a man’s loss of his beauty- 
sleep. I replied that his loss of beauty-sleep 
was rather improving to a man of so high 
complexion ; and that I, being none of the 
quality, must pay half-quality prices; and 
so I gave him double fee, as became a good 
farmer; and he was glad to be quit of 
Kickums, as I saw by the turn of his eye, 
while going out at the archway. 

All this was done by lantern light, al- 
though the moon was high and bold ; and 
in the northern heaven, flags and ribbons 
of a jostling pattern, such as we often have 
in autumn, but iu July very rarely. Of these 
Master Dryden had spoken somewhere, in 
his courtly manner; but of him I think so 
little — because by fashion preferred to 
Shakspeare — that I can not remember the 
passage ; neither is it a credit to him. 

Therefore I was guided mainly by the 
sound of guns aud trumpets, in riding out of 
the narrow ways, and into the open marsh- 
es. And thus I might have found my road,, 
iu spite of all the spread of water and the 
glaze of moonshine ; but that, as I followed 
sound (far from hedge or causeway), fog 
(like a chestnut -tree in blossom touched 
with moonlight) met me. Now fog is a 
thing that I understand, and can do with 
well enough, where I know the country ; but 
here I had never been before. It was noth- 
ing to our Exmoor fogs ; not to be compared 
with them ; and all the time one could se© 
the moon, which we can not do iu our fogs, 
nor even the sun, for a week together. Yet 
the gleam of water always makes a fog more 
difficult : like a curtain on a mirror, none can 
tell the boundaries. 

And here we had broad- water patches, in 
and out, inlaid on land, like mother-of-pearl 
in brown shittim - wood. To a wild duck 
born and bred there, it would almost be a 
puzzle to find her own nest among us ; what 
chance, then, had I and Kickums, both un- 
used to marsh and mere ? Each time when 
we thought that we must be right now at 
last, by track or passage, and approaching 
the conflict, with the sounds of it waxing 
nearer, suddenly a break of water would be 
laid before us, with the moon looking mildly 
over it, and the northern lights behind us, 
dancing down the lines of fog. 

It was an awful thing, I say (and to this 
day I remember it), to hear the sounds of 
raging fight, and the yells of raving slayers* 


240 


LORNA DOONE. 


and the howls of poor men stricken hard, 
and shattered from wrath to wailing ; then 
suddenly the dead low hush, as of a sonl 
departing, and spirits kneeling over it. 
Through the vapor of the earth, and white 
breath of the water, and beneath the pale 
round moon (bowing as the drift went by), 
all this rush and pause of fear passed or lin- 
gered on my path. 

At last, when I almost despaired of es- 
caping from this tangle of spongy banks, 
and of hazy creeks and reed-fringe, my horse 
heard the neigh of a fellow-horse, and was 
only too glad to answer it ; upon which the 
other, having lost his rider, came up and 
pricked his ears at ns, and gazed through 
the fog very steadfastly. Therefore I en- 
couraged him with a soft and genial whistle, 
and Kickums did his best to tempt him with 
a snort of inquiry. However, nothing would 
suit that nag, except to enjoy his new free- 
dom ; and he capered away with his tail set 
on high, and the stirrup-irons clashing under , 
him. Therefore, as he might know the way, 
and appeared to have been in the battle, we 
followed him very carefully ; and he led us 
to a little hamlet, called (as I found after- 
ward) West Zuyland, or Zealand, so named 
perhaps from its situation amidst this in- 
land sea. 

Here the King’s troops had been quite late- 
ly, and their fires were still burning ; but the 
men themselves had been summoned away 
by the night attack of the rebels. Hence I 
procured for my guide a young man who 
knew the district thoroughly, and who led 
me by many intricate ways to the rear of 
the rebel army. We came upon a broad 
open moor striped with sullen water-courses, 
shagged with sedge and yellow iris, and in 
the drier part with bilberries. For by this 
time it was four o’clock, and the summer 
sun, arising wanly, showed us all the ghast- 
ly scene. 

Would that I had never been there ! Oft- 
en in the lonely hours, even now it haunts 
me ; would, far more, that the piteous thing 
had never been done in England! Flying 
men, flung back from dreams of victory and 
honor, only glad to have the luck of life and 
limbs to fly with, mud-bedraggled, foul with 
slime, reeking both with sweat and blood, 
which they could not stop to wipe, cursing, 
with their pumped-out lungs, every stick that 
hindered them, or gory puddle that slipped 
the step, scarcely able to leap over the corses 
that had dragged to die. And to see how 
the corses lay; some, as fair as death in 
sleep, with the smile of placid valor and of 
noble manhood hovering yet on the silent 
lips. These had bloodless hands put upward, 
white as wax, and firm as death, clasped (as 
on a monument) in prayer for dear ones left 
behind, or in high thanksgiving. And of 
these men there was nothing in their broad 
iblue eyes to fear. But others were of dif- 


ferent sort; simple fellows unused to pain, 
accustomed to the bill - hook, perhaps, or 
rasp of the knuckles in a quick -set hedge, 
or making some todo at breakfast over a 
thumb cut in sharpening a scythe, and ex- 
pecting their wives to make more todo. Yet 
here lay these poor chaps, dead ; dead, after 
a deal of pain, with little mind to bear it, 
and a soul they had never thought of, gone, 
their God alone knows whither ; but to mer- 
cy we may trust. Upon these things I can 
not dwell, and none I trow would ask me ; 
only if a plain man saw what I saw that 
morning, he (if God had blessed him with the 
heart that is in most of us) must have sick- 
ened of all desire to be great among man- 
kind. 

Seeing me riding to the front (where the 
work of death went on among the men of 
true English pluck ; which, when moved, no 
farther moves), the fugitives called out to 
me in half a dozen dialects to make no utter 
, fool of myself, for the great guns were come, 
and the fight was over; all the rest was 
slaughter. 

“Arl oop wi Moonmo’,” shouted one big 
fellow, a miner of the Mendip hills, whose 
weapon was a pickaxe: “na oose to vaight 
na moor. Wend thee hame, yoong mon 
agin.” 

Upon this I stopped my horse, desiring 
not to be shot for nothing ; and eager to aid 
some poor sick people who tried to lift their 
arms to me. And this I did to the best of 
my power, though void of skill in the busi- 
ness, and more inclined to weep with them 
than to check their weeping. While I was 
giving a drop of cordial from my flask to 
one poor fellow, who sat up, while his life 
was ebbing, and with slow insistence urged 
me, when his broken voice would come, to 
tell his wife (whose name I knew not) some- 
thing about an apple-tree, and a golden 
guinea stored in it, to divide among six 
children — in the midst of this I felt warm 
lips laid against my cheek quite softly, and 
then a little push; and behold, it was a 
horse leaning over me ! I arose in haste, and 
there stood Winnie looking at me with be- 
seeching eyes, enough to melt a heart of 
stone. Then seeing my attention fixed, she 
turned her head, and glanced back sadly 
toward the place of battle, and gave a little 
wistful neigh, and then looked me full in the 
face again, as much as to say, “ Do you un- 
derstand?” while she scraped with one hoof 
impatiently. If ever a horse tried hard to 
speak, it was Winnie at that moment. I 
went to her side and patted her ; but that 
was not what she wanted. Then I offered 
to leap into the empty saddle ; but neither 
did that seem good to her : for she ran away 
toward the part of the field at which she had 
been glancing back, and then turned round 
and shook her mane, entreating me to follow 
her. 


LORNA DOONE. 


241 


Upon this I learned from the dying man 
'wriere to find his apple-tree, and promised 
to add another guinea to the one in store 
for his children ; and so, commending him to 
God, I mounted my own horse again, and, to 
Winnie’s great delight, professed myself at 
her service. With her ringing silvery neigh, 
such as no other horse of all I ever knew 
could equal, she at once proclaimed her tri- 
umph, and told her master (or meant to tell, 
if death should not have closed his ears) 
that she was coming to his aid, and bringing 
one who might be trusted, of the higher race 
that kill. 

A cannon-bullet (fired low, and plowing 
the marsh slowly) met poor Winnie front to 
front; and she, being as quick as thought, 
lowered her nose to snitf at it. It might be 
a message from her master, for it made a 
mournful noise. But luckily for Winnie’s 
life, a rise of wet ground took the ball even 
under her very nose, and there it cut a 
splashy groove, missing her off hind-foot by 
an inch, and scattering black mud over her. 
It frightened me much more than Winnie ; 
of that I am quite certain : because though 
I am firm enough when it comes to a real 
tussle, and the heart of a fellow warms up 
and tells him that he must go through with 
it, yet I never did approve of making a cold 
pie of death. 

Therefore, with those reckless cannons, 
brazen -mouthed, and bellowing, two fur- 
longs off, or it might be more (and the more 
the merrier), I would have given that year’s 
hay crop for a bit of a hill, or a thicket of 
oaks, or almost even a badger’s earth. Peo- 
ple will call me a coward for this (especially 
when I had made up my mind that life was 
not worth having, without any sign of Lor- 
na) ; nevertheless, I can not help it : those 
were my feelings ; and I set them down be- 
cause they made a mark on me. At Glen 
Doone I had fought, even against cannon, 
with some spirit and fury: but now I saw 
nothing to fight about ; but rather in every 
poor doubled corpse a good reason for not 
fighting. So, in cold blood riding on, and 
yet ashamed that a man should shrink where 
a horse went bravely, I cast a bitter blame 
upon the reckless ways of Winnie. 

Nearly all were scattered now. Of the 
noble countrymen (armed with scythe or 
pickaxe, blacksmith’s hammer or fold-pitch- 
er), who had stood their ground for hours 
against blazing musketry (from men whom 
they could not get at by reason of the wa- 
ter-dike), and then against the deadly can- 
non, draggedby the Bishop’s horses to slaugh- 
ter his own sheep ; of these sturdy English- 
men, noble in their want of sense, scarce 
one out of four remained for the cowards to 
shoot down. “ Cross the rhaine,” they shout- 
ed out, “cross the rhaine, and coom within 
rache but the other mongrel Britons, with 
-a mongrel at their head, found it pleasanter 
16 


to shoot men who could not shoot in answer, 
than to meet the chance of mischief from 
strong arms and stronger hearts. 

The last scene of this piteous play was 
acting just as I rode up. Broad daylight, 
and upstanding sun, winnowing fog from 
the eastern hills, and spreading the moors 
with freshness; all along the dikes they 
shone, glistened on the willow trunks, and 
touched the banks with a hoary gray. But, 
alas! those banks were touched more deep- 
ly with a gory red, and strewn with fallen 
trunks more woeful than the wreck of trees; 
while howling, cursing, yelling, and the 
loathsome reek of carnage drowned the scent 
of new-mown hay, and the carol of the lark. 

Then the cavalry of the King, with their 
horses at full speed, dashed from either side 
upon the helpless mob of countrymen. A 
few pikes feebly leveled met them ; but they 
shot the pikemen, drew swords, and helter- 
skelter leaped into the shattered and scat- 
tering mass. Right and left they hacked 
and hewed ; I could hear the snapping of 
scythes beneath them, and see the flash of 
their sweeping swords. How it must end 
was plain enough, even to one like myself, 
who had never beheld such a battle before. 
But Winnie led me away to the left ; and as 
I could not help the people, neither stop the 
slaughter, but found the cannon-bullets com- 
ing very rudely nigh me, I was only too glad 
to follow her. 


CHAPTER LXV. 

FALLING AMONG LAMBS. 

That faithful creature, whom I began to 
admire as if she were my own (which is no 
little thing for a man to say of another man’s 
horse), stopped in front of a low black shed 
such as we call a “linhay.” And here she 
uttered a little greeting in a subdued and 
softened voice, hoping to obtain an answer 
such as her master was wont to give in a 
cheery manner. Receiving no reply, she en- 
tered, and I (who could scarce keep up with 
her, poor Kickums being weary) leaped from 
his back, and followed. There I found her 
sniffing gently, but with great emotion, at 
the body of Tom Faggus. A corpse poor 
Tom appeared to be, if ever there was one in 
this world ; and I turned away, and felt un- 
able to keep altogether from weeping. But 
the mare either could not understand, or else 
would not believe it. She reached her long 
neck forth, and felt him with her under lip, 
passing it over his skin as softly as a mother 
would do to an infant ; and then she looked 
up at me again, as much as to say, “ He is 
all right.” 

Upon this I took courage, and handled 
poor Tom, which being young I had feared 
at first to do. He groaned very feebly as I 


242 


LORNA DOONE. 


raised him up ; and there was the wound, a 
great savage one (whether from pike-thrust 
or musket-ball), gaping and welling in his 
right side, from which a piece seemed to he 
torn away. I bound it up with some of my 
linen, so far as I knew how, just to staunch 
the How of blood until we could get a doc- 
tor. Then I gave him a little weak brandy- 
and-water, which he drank with the great- 
est eagerness, and made sign to me for more 
of it. But not knowing how far it was right 
to give cordial under the circumstances, I 
handed him unmixed water that time, think- 
ing that he was too far gone to perceive the 
difference. But herein I wronged Tom Fag- 
gus, for he shook his head and frowned at 
me. Even at the door of death he would 
not drink what Adam drank, by whom came 
death into the world. So I gave him a lit- 
tle more eau-de-vie, and he took it most sub- 
missively. 

After that he seemed better, and a little 
color came into his cheeks ; and he looked at 
Winnie and knew her, and would have her 
nose in his clammy hand, though I thought 
it not good for either of them. With the 
stay of my arm he sat upright, and faintly 
looked about him, as if at the end of a vio- 
lent dream, too much for his power of mind. 
Then he managed to whisper, “Is Winnie 
hurt ?” 

“ As sound as a roach,” I answered. “ Then 
so am I,” said he; “put me upon her back, 
J ohn ; she and I die together.” 

Surprised as I was at this fatalism (for so 
it appeared to me), of which he had often 
shown symptoms before (but I took them 
for mere levity), now I knew not what to 
do ; for it seemed to me a murderous thing 
to set such a man on horseback, where he 
must surely bleed to death, even if he could 
keep the saddle. But he told me with many 
breaks and pauses, that unless I obeyed his 
orders, he would tear off all my bandages, 
and accept no further aid from me. 

While I was yet hesitating, a storm of 
horse at full gallop went by, tearing, swear- 
ing, bearing away all the country before 
them. Only a little pollard hedge kept us 
from their bloodshot eyes. “Now is the 
time,” said my cousin Tom, so far as I could 
make out his words ; “ on their heels I am 
safe, John, if I only have Winnie under me. 
Winnie and I die together.” 

Seeing this strong bent of his mind, strong- 
er than any pains of death, I even did what 
his feeble eyes sometimes implored, and some- 
times commanded. With a strong sash from 
his own hot neck, bound and twisted tight 
as wax around his damaged waist, I set him 
upon Winnie’s back, and placed his trem- 
bling feet in stirrups, with a band from one 
to other under the good mare’s body, so that 
no swerve could throw him out ; and then I 
said, “ Lean forward, Tom ; it will stop your 
hurt from bleeding.” He leaned almost on 


the neck of the mare, which, as I knew must 
close the wound; and the light of his eyes 
was quite different, and the pain of his fore- 
head unstrung itself, as he felt the undulous 
readiness of her volatile paces under him. 

“ God bless you, John, I am safe,” he whis- 
pered, fearing to open his lungs much ; “ who 
can come near my Winnie mare ? A mile of 
her gallop is ten years of life. Look out for 
yourself, John Ridd.” He sucked his lips, 
and the mare went off as easy and swift as 
a swallow. 

“ Well,” thought I, as I looked at Kickums, 
ignobly cropping a bit of grass, “ I have done 
a very good thing, no doubt, and ought to 
be^ thankful to God for the chance. But as 
for getting away unharmed, with all these 
scoundrels about me, and only a foundered 
horse to trust in — good and spiteful as he 
is — upon the whole, I begin to think that I 
have made a fool of myself, according to my 
habit. No wonder Tom said , 1 Look out for 
yourself!’ I shall look out from a prison 
window, or perhaps even out of a halter. 
And then, what will Lorna think of me ?” 

Being in this wistful mood, I resolved to 
abide a while even where fate had thrown 
me ; for my horse required good rest, no 
doubt, and was taking it even while he crop- 
ped, with his hind-legs far away stretched 
out, and his fore-legs gathered under him, 
and his muzzle on the mole-hills ; so that he 
had five supportings from his mother earth. 
Moreover, the linhay itself was full of very 
ancient cow -dung, than which there is no 
balmier and more maiden soporific. Hence 
I resolved, upon the whole, though grieving 
about breakfast, to light a pipe, and go to 
sleep, or at least until the hot sun should 
arouse the flies. 

I may have slept three hours, or four, or 
it might be even five — for I never counted 
time while sleeping — when a shaking, more 
rude than the old landlady’s, brought me 
back to the world again. I looked up with 
a mighty yawn, and saw twenty or so of 
foot-soldiers. 

“ This linhay is not yours,” I said, when 
they had quite aroused me, with tongue, 
and hand, and even sword -prick; “what 
business have you here, good fellows ?” 

“ Business bad for you,” said one, “ and 
will lead you to the gallows.” 

“Do you wish to know the way out 
again f” I asked, very quietly, as being no 
braggadocia. 

“ We will show thee the way out,” said 
one, “and the way out of the world,” said 
another; “but not the way to heaven,” said 
one chap, most unlikely to know it ; and 
thereupon they all fell wagging, like a bed 
of clover-leaves in the morning, at their own 
choice humor. 

“Will you pile your arms outside,” I said, 
“ and try a bit of fair play with me ?” 

For I disliked these men sincerely, and 


LORNA DOONE. 


243 


was fain to teacli thorn a lesson ; they were 
so unchristian in appearance, having faces 
of a coffee color, and dirty beards half over 
them. Moreover, their dress was outrageous, 
and their address still worse. However, I 
had wiser let them alone, as will appear 
afterward. These savage - looking fellows 
laughed at the idea of my having any chance 
against some twenty of them, but I knew 
that the place was in my favor ; for my part 
of it had been fenced off (for weaning a calf 
most likely), so that only two could come at 
me at once ; and I must he very much out 
of training, if I could not manage two of 
them. Therefore I laid aside my carbine 
and the two horse - pistols ; and they, with 
many coarse jokes at me, went a little way 
outside, and set their weapons against the 
wall, and turned up their coat-sleeves jaunt- 
ily, and then began to hesitate. 

“ Go you first, Bob,” I heard them say ; 
“ you are the biggest man of us ; and Dick 
the wrestler along of you. Us will back 
you up, boy.” 

“ I’ll warrant I’ll draw the badger,” said 
Bob, “and not a tooth will I leave him. 
But mind, for the honor of Kirke’s lambs, 
every man stands me a glass of gin.” Then 
he and another man made a rush, and the 
others came double -quick -march on their 
heels. But as Bob ran at me most stupidly, 
not even knowing how to place his hands, 
I caught him with my knuckles at the back 
of his neck, and with all the sway of* my 
right arm sent him over the heads of his 
comrades. Meanwhile Dick the wrestler 
had grappled me, expecting to show off his 
art, of which indeed he had some small 
knowledge ; but being quite of the light 
weights, in a second he was flying after his 
companion Bob. 

Now these two men were hurt so badly, 
the light one having knocked his head 
against the lintel of the outer gate, that the 
rest had no desire to encounter the like mis- 
fortune. So they hung back whispering ; 
and before they had made up their minds, I 
rushed into the midst of them. The sudden- 
ness and the weight of my onset took them 
wholly by surprise; and for once in their 
lives, perhaps, Kirke’s lambs were worthy 
of their name. Like a flock of sheep at a 
dog’s attack, they fell away, hustling one 
another, and my only difficulty was not to 
tumble over them. 

I had taken my carbine out with me, hav- 
ing a fondness for it, but the two horse-pis- 
tols I left behind ; and therefore felt good 
title to take two from the magazine of the 
lambs. And with these and my carbine I 
leaped upon Kickums, who was now quite 
glad of a gallop again, and I bade adieu to 
that mongrel lot ; yet they had the mean- 
ness to shoot at me. Thanking God for my 
deliverance (inasmuch as those men would 
have strung me up from a pollard ash with- 


out trial, as I heard them tell one another, 
and saw the tree they had settled upon), I 
ventured to go rather fast on my way, with 
doubt and uneasiness urging me. And now 
my way was home again. Nobody could 
say but what I had done my duty, and res- 
cued Tom (if he could be rescued) from the 
mischief into which his own perverseness 
and love of change (rather than deep relig- 
ious convictions, to which our Annie ascribed 
liis outbreak) had led, or seemed likely to 
lead him. And how proud would my moth- 
er be; and — ah! well, there was nobody 
else to be proud of me now. 

But while thinking these things, and de- 
siring my breakfast beyond any power of 
describing, and even beyond my remem- 
brance, I fell into another fold of lambs, from 
which there was no exit. These, like true 
crusaders, met me, swaggering very hearti- 
ly, and with their barrels of cider set, like so 
many cannons, across the road, over against 
a small hostel. 

“We have won the victory, my lord King, 
and we mean to enjoy it. Down from thy 
horse, and have a stoup of cider, thou big 
rebel.” 

“No rebel am I. My name is John Ridd. 
I belong to the side of the Kiug, and I want 
some breakfast.” 

These fellows were truly hospitable ; that 
much I will say for them. Being accustom- 
ed to Arab ways, they could toss a grill, or 
fritter, or the inner meaning of an egg, into 
any form they pleased, comely and very good 
to eat ; and it led me to think of Annie. So 
I made the rarest breakfast any man might 
hope for, after all his troubles ; and getting 
on with these brown fellows better than 
could be expected, I craved permission to 
light a pipe, if not disagreeable. Hearing 
this, they roared at me with a superior laugh- 
ter, and asked me whether or not I knew the 
tobacco-leaf from the chick-weed ; and when 
I was forced to answer no, not having gone 
into the subject, but being content with any 
thing brown, they clapped me on the back 
and swore they had never seen any one like 
me. Upon the whole, this pleased me much, 
for I do not wish to be taken always as of 
the common pattern ; and so we smoked ad- 
mirable tobacco — for they would not have 
any of mine, though very courteous concern- 
ing it — and I was beginning to understand 
a little of what they told me, when up came 
those confounded lambs who had shown 
more tail than head to me in the linhay, as 
I mentioned. 

Now these men upset every thing. Hav- 
ing been among wrestlers so much as my 
duty compelled me to be, and having learned 
the necessity of the rest which follows the 
conflict, and the right of discussion which 
all people have who pay their sixpence to 
enter ; and how they obtrude this right, and 
their wisdom, upon the man who has labor- 


244 


LORNA DOONE. 


ed, until lie forgets all the work he did, and 
begins to think that they did it; having 
some knowledge of this sort of thing, and 
the flux of miuds swimming in liquor, I fore- 
saw a brawl as plainly as if it were Bear 
Street in Barnstaple. 

And a brawl there was, without any error, 
except of the men who hit their friends, and 
those who defended their enemies. My part- 
ners in breakfast and beer-can swore that I 
was no prisoner, but the best and most loyal 
subject, and the finest -hearted fellow they 
had ever the luck to meet with. Whereas 
the men from the linhay swore that I was a 
rebel miscreant ; and have me they would, 
with a rope’s-end ready, in spite of every 
[violent language] who had got drunk at 
my expense, and been misled by my [strong 
word] lies. 

While this fight was going on (and its 
mere occurrence shows, perhaps, that my 
conversation in those days was not entirely 
despicable — else why should my new friends 
fight for me, when I had paid for the ale, 
and therefore won the wrong tense of grati- 
tude?), it was in my power at any moment 
to take horse and go. And this would have 
been my wisest plan, and a very great sav- 
ing of money ; but somehow I felt as if it 
would be a mean thing to slip off so. Even 
while I was hesitatiug, and the men were 
breaking each other’s heads, a superior offi- 
cer rode up with his sword drawn and his 
face on fire. 

“ What, my lambs, my lambs !” he cried, 
smiting with the flat of his sword ; “ is this 
how you waste my time and my purse, when 
you ought to be catching a hundred prison- 
ers, worth ten pounds apiece to me ? Who 
is this young fellow we have here ? Speak 
up, sirrah ; what are thou, and how much 
will thy good mother pay for thee ?” 

“My mother will pay naught for me,” I 
answered ; while the lambs fell back, and 
glowered at one another; “so please your 
worship, I am no rebel, but an honest farm- 
er, and well proved of loyalty.” 

“ Ha, ha ! a farmer art thou ? Those fel- 
lows always pay the best. Good farmer, 
come to yon barren tree ; thou shalt make it 
fruitful.” 

Colonel Kirke made a sign to his men, 
and before I could think of resistance stout 
new ropes were flung around me ; and with 
three men or either side I was led along very 
painfully. And now I saw, and repented 
deeply of my careless folly in stopping with 
those boon-companions, instead of being far 
away. But the newness of their manners 
to me, and their mode of regarding the world 
(differing so much from mine own), as well 
as the flavor of their tobacco, had made me 
quite forget my duty to the farm and to 
myself. Yet methought they would be ten- 
der to me, after all our speeches : how, then, 
was I disappointed, when the men who had 


drunk my beer drew on those grievous ropes 
twice as hard as the men I had been at strife 
with ! Yet this may have been from no ill- 
will, but simply that, having fallen under 
suspicion of laxity, they were compelled, in 
self-defense, now to be overzealous. 

Nevertheless, however pure and godly 
might be their motives, I beheld myself in a 
grievous case, and likely to get the worst 
of it. For the face of the Colonel was hard 
and stern as a block of bog-wood oak ; and 
though the men might pity me, and think 
me unjustly executed, yet they must obey 
their orders, or themselves be put to death. 
Therefore I addressed myself to the Colonel 
in 'a most ingratiating manner, begging him 
not to sully the glory of his victory, and 
dwelling upon my pure innocence, and even 
good service to our lord the King. But Col- 
onel Kirke only gave command that I should 
be smitten in the mouth, which office Bob, 
whom I had flung so hard out of the linhay, 
performed with great zeal and efficiency. 
But being aware of the coming smack, I 
thrust forth a pair of teeth ; upon which the 
knuckles of my good friend made a melan- 
choly shipwreck. 

It is not in my power to tell half the 
thoughts that moved me when we came 
to the fatal tree, and saw two men hang- 
ing there already, as innocent, perhaps, as 
I was, and henceforth entirely harmless. 
Though ordered by the Colonel to look 
steadfastly upon them, I could not bear to 
do so; upon which he called me a paltry 
coward, and promised my breeches to any 
man who would spit upon my countenance. 
This vile thing Bob, being angered perhaps 
by the smarting wound of his knuckles, 
bravely stepped forward to do for me, trust- 
ing, no doubt, to the rope I was led with. 
But, unluckily as it proved for him, my 
right arm was free for a moment ; and there- 
with I dealt him such a blow that he never 
spake again. For this thing I have often 
grieved ; but the provocation was very sore 
to the pride of a young man, and I trust that 
God has forgiven me. At the sound and 
sight of that bitter stroke, the other men 
drew back; and Colonel Kirke, now black 
in the face with fury and vexation, gave 
orders for to shoot me, and cast me into the 
ditch hard by. The men raised their pieces 
and pointed at me, waiting for the word 
to fire ; and I, being quite overcome by the 
hurry of these events, and quite unprepared 
to die yet, could only think all upside down 
about Lorna, and my mother, and wonder 
what each would say to it. I spread my 
hands before my eyes, not being so brave as 
some men, and hoping, in some foolish way, 
to cover my heart with my elbows. I heard 
the breath of all around, as if my skull were 
a sounding-board, and knew even how the 
different men were fingering their triggers. 
And a cold sweat broke all over me, as the 


LORNA DOONE. 


245 


Colonel, prolonging liis enjoyment, began 
slowly to say, “ Fire.” 

But while he was yet dwelling on the 
“ F,” the hoofs of a horse dashed out on the 
road, and horse and horseman flung them- 
selves betwixt me and the gun muzzles. 
So narrowly was I saved that one man could 
not check his trigger ; his musket went off, 
and the ball struck the horse on the withers, 
and scared him exceedingly. He began to 
lash out with his heels all around, aud the 
Colonel was glad to keep clear of him ; and 
the men made excuse to lower their guns, 
not really wishing to shoot me. 

“ How now, Captain Stickles ¥” cried 
Kirke, the more angry because he had 
shown his cowardice ; “ dare you, sir, to 
come betwixt me and my lawful prison- 
er ?” 

“ Nay, hearken one moment, Colonel,” re- 
plied my old friend Jeremy ; and his dam- 
aged voice was the sweetest sound I had 
heard for many a day ; “ for your own sake, 
hearken.” He looked so full of momentous 
tidings, that Colonel Kirke made a sign to 
his men not to shoot me till further orders ; 
and then he went aside with Stickles, so 
that in spite of all my anxiety I could not 
catch what passed between them. But I 
fancied that the name of the Lord Chief- 
justice Jeffreys was spoken more than once, 
and with emphasis and deference. 

“Then I leave him in your hands, Cap- 
tain Stickles,” said Kirke at last, so that all 
might hear him ; and though the news was 
so good for me, the smile of baffled malice 
made his dark face look most hideous ; “ and 
I shall hold you answerable for the custody 
of this prisoner.” 

“ Colonel Kirke, I will answer for him,” 
Master Stickles replied, with a grave bow, 
and one hand on his breast; “John Ridd, 
you are my prisoner. Follow me, John 
Ridd.” 

Upon that, those precious lambs flocked 
away, leaving the rope still around me ; and 
some were glad, and some were sorry, not to 
see me swinging. Being free of my arms 
again, I touched my hat to Colonel Kirke 
as became his rank and experience; but 
he did not condescend to return my short 
salutation, having espied in the distance 
a prisoner out of whom he might make 
money. 

I wrung the hand of Jeremy Stickles, for 
his truth and goodness j and he almost wept 
(for since his wound he had been a weak- 
ened man) as he answered, “Turn for turn, 
John. You saved my life from the Doones ; 
and by the mercy of God, I have saved you 
from a far worse company. Let your sister 
Annie know it.” 


CHAPTER LXVI. 

SUITABLE DEVOTION". 

Now Kickums was not like Winnie, any 
more than a man is like a woman ; and so 
he had not followed my fortunes, except at 
his own distance. No doubt but what he 
felt a certain interest in me ; but his inter- 
est was not devotion ; and man might go 
his way and be hanged, rather than horse 
would meet hardship. Therefore, seeing 
things to be bad, and his master involved 
in trouble, what did this horse do but start 
for the ease and comfort of Plover’s Bar- 
rows, and the plentiful ration of oats abid- 
ing in his own manger. For this I do not 
blame him. It is the manner of mankind. 

But I could not help being very uneasy at 
the thought of my mother’s discomfort and 
worry, when she should spy this good horse 
coming home, without any master or rider, 
and I almost hoped that he might be caught 
(although he was worth at least twenty 
pounds) by some of the King’s troopers, rath- 
er than find his way home, and spread dis- 
tress among our people. Yet, knowing his 
nature, I doubted if any could catch, or, 
catching, would keep him. 

Jeremy Stickles assured me, as we took the 
road to Bridgewater, that the only chance 
for my life (if I still refused to fly) was to 
obtain an order forthwith for my dispatch 
to London as a suspected person indeed, 
but not found in open rebellion, and be- 
lieved to be under the patronage of the great 
Lord Jeffreys. “ For,” said he, “ in a few 
hours’ time you would fall into the hands 
of Lord Feversham, who has won this fight, 
without seeing it, and who has returned to 
bed again, to have his breakfast more com- 
fortably. Now he may not be quite so sav- 
age, perhaps, as Colonel Kirke, nor find so 
much sport in gibbeting ; but he is equal- 
ly pitiless, and his price no doubt would be 
higher.” 

“ I will pay no price whatever,” I an- 
swered, “neither will I fly. An hour agone 
I would have fled for the sake of my mother 
and the farm. But now that I have been 
taken prisoner, and my name is known, if 
I fly, the farm is forfeited ; and my mother 
and sister must starve. Moreover, I have 
done no harm ; I have borne no weapons 
against the King, nor desired the success of 
his enemies. I like not that the son of a 
bona-roba should be King of England, nei- 
ther do I count the papists any worse than 
we are. If they have aught to try me for, I 
will stand my trial.” 

“ Then to London thou must go, my son. 
There is no such thing as trial here; we 
hang the good folk without it, which saves 
them much anxiety. But quicken thy step, 
good John ; I have influence with Lord 
Churchill, and we must contrive to see him 
ere the foreigner falls to work again. Lord 


246 


LORNA DOONE. 


Churchill is a man of sense, and imprisons 
nothing but his money.” 

We were lucky enough to find this noble- 
man, who has since become so famous by his 
foreign victories. He received us with great 
civility ; and looked at me with much inter- 
est, being a tall and fine young man himself, 
but not to compare with me in size, although 
far better favored. I liked his face well 
enough, but thought there was something 
false about it. He put me a few keen ques- 
tions, such as a man not assured of honesty 
might have found hard to answer ; and he 
stood in a very upright attitude, making the 
most of his figure. 

I saw nothing to be proud of, at the mo- 
ment, in this interview ; but since the great 
Duke of Marlborough rose to the top of glo- 
ry, I have tried to remember more about him 
than my conscience quite backs up. How 
should I know that this man would be fore- 
most of our kingdom in five -and -twenty 
years or so ? and not knowing, why should I 
heed him, except for my own pocket ? Nev- 
ertheless, I have been so cross-questioned — 
far worse than by young Lord Churchill — 
about His Grace the Duke of Marlborough, 
and what he said to me, and what I said 
then, and how His Grace replied to that, 
and whether he smiled like another man, or 
screwed up his lips like a button (as our 
parish tailor said of him), and whether I 
knew from the turn of his nose that no 
Frenchman could stand before him, all these 
inquiries have worried me so ever since the 
battle of Blenheim, that if tailors would 
only print upon waistcoats, I would give 
double price for a vest bearing this inscrip- 
tion, “No information can be given about 
the Duke of Marlborough.” 

Now this good Lord Churchill — for one 
might call him good, by comparison with 
the very bad people around him — granted 
without any long hesitation the order for 
my safe deliverance to the Court of King’s 
Bench at Westminster ; and Stickles, who 
had to report in London, was empowered to 
convey me, and made answerable for pro- 
ducing me. This arrangement would have 
been entirely to my liking, although the 
time of year was bad for leaving Plover’s 
Barrows so ; but no man may quite choose 
his times ; and on the whole I would have 
been quite content to visit London, if my 
mother could be warned that nothing was 
amiss with me, only a mild, and, as one 
might say, nominal captivity. And to pre- 
vent her anxiety, I did my best to send a 
letter through good Sergeant Bloxham, of 
whom I heard as quartered with Dumbar- 
ton’s regiment at Chedzuy. But that reg- 
iment was away in pursuit ; and I was 
forced to intrust my letter to a man who 
said that he knew him, and accepted a 
shilling to see to it. 

For fear of any unpleasant change, we 


set forth at once for London ; and truly 
thankful may I be that God in His mercy 
spared me the sight of the cruel and bloody 
work with which the whole country reeked 
and howled during the next fortnight. I 
have heard things that set my hair on end, 
and made me loathe good meat for days; 
but I made a point of setting down only 
the things which I saw done ; and in this 
particular case not many will quarrel with 
my decision. Enough, therefore, that we 
rode on (for Stickles had found me a horse 
at last) as far as Wells, where we slept that 
night; and being joined in the morning by 
several troopers and orderlies, we made a 
slow but safe journey to London by way of 
Bath and Reading. 

The sight of London warmed my heart 
with various emotions, such as a cordial 
man must draw from the heart of all hu- 
manity. Here there are quick ways and 
manners, and the rapid sense of knowledge, 
and the power of understanding, ere a word 
be spoken. Whereas at Oare you must say 
a thing three times, very slowly, before it 
gets inside the skull of the good man you 
are addressing. And yet we are far more 
clever there than in any parish for fifteen 
miles. 

But what moved me most, when I saw 
again the noble oil and tallow of the Lon- 
don lights, and the dripping torches at al- 
most every corner, and the handsome sign- 
boards, was the thought that here my Lor- 
na lived, and walked, and took the air, ar.d 
perhaps thought now aud then of the old 
days in the good farm-house. Although I 
would make no approach to her, any more 
than she had done to me (upon which grief 
I have not dwelt, for fear of seeming self- 
ish), yet there must be some large chance, 
or the little chance might be enlarged, of 
falling in with the maiden somehow, and 
learning how her mind was set. If against 
me, all should be over. I was not the man 
to sigh and cry for love like a Romeo ; none 
should even guess my grief except my sister 
Annie. 

But if Lorna loved me still — as in my 
heart of hearts I hoped — then would I for 
no one care, except her own delicious self. 
Rank and title, wealth and grandeur, all 
should go to the winds before they scared 
me from my own true-love. 

Thinking thus, I went to bed in the cen- 
tre of London town, and was bitten so griev- 
ously by creatures whose name is u Legion,” 
mad with the delight of getting a whole- 
some farmer among them, that verily I was 
ashamed to walk in the courtly parts of the 
town next day, having lumps upon my face 
of the size of a pickling walnut. The land- 
lord said that this was nothing ; and that he 
expected, in two days at the utmost, a very 
fresh young Irishman, for whom they would 
all forsake me. Nevertheless, I declined to 


LORNA DOONE. 


247 


'wait, unless he could find me a hay-rick to 
sleep in ; for the insects of grass only tickle. 
He assured me that no hay-rick could now 
be found in London ; upon which I was 
forced to leave him, and with mutual es- 
teem we parted. 

The next night I had better luck, being 
introduced to a decent widow of very high 
Scotch origin. That house was swept and 
garnished so, that not a bit was left to eat 
for either man or insect. The change of 
air having made me hungry, I wanted some- 
thing after supper, being quite ready to pay 
for it, and showing my purse as a symptom. 
But the face of Widow MacAlister, when I 
proposed to have some more food, was a 
thing to be drawn (if it could be drawn 
further) by our new caricaturist. 

Therefore I left her also, for liefer would 
I be eaten myself than have nothing to eat ; 
and so I came back to my old furrier; the 
which was a thoroughly hearty man, and 
welcomed me to my room again, with two 
shillings added to the rent, in the joy of his 
heart at seeing me. Being under parole to 
Master Stickles, I only went out betwixt 
certain hours; because I was accounted as 
liable to be called upon, for what purpose 
I knew not, but hoped it might be a good 
one. I felt it a loss, and a hinderance to 
me, that I was so bound to remain at home 
during the session of the courts of law ; for 
thereby the chance of ever beholding Lorn a 
was very greatly contracted, if not altogeth- 
er annihilated. For these were the very 
hours in which the people of fashion and 
the high world were wont to appear to the 
rest of mankind, so as to encourage them. 
And of course by this time the Lady Lorna 
was high among people of fashion, and was 
not likely to be seen out of fashionable 
hours. It is true that there were some 
places of expensive entertainment, at which 
the better sort of mankind might be seen 
and studied, in their hours of relaxation, by 
those of the lower order, who could pay suf- 
ficiently; But alas, my money was getting 
low ; and the privilege of seeing my betters 
was more and more denied to me, as my cash 
drew shorter. For a man must have a good 
coat, at least, and the pockets not wholly 
empty, before he can look at those whom 
God has created for his ensample. 

Hence, and from many other causes — part 
of which was my own pride — it happened 
that I abode in London betwixt a month 
and five weeks’ time, ere ever I saw Lorna. 
It seemed unfit that I should go and way- 
lay her, and spy on her, and say (or mean to 
say), “ Lo, here is your poor faithful farmer, 
a man who is unworthy of you, by means 
of his common birth, and yet who dares to 
■crawl across your path, that you may pity 
him. For God’s sake show a little pity, 
though you may not feel it.” Such behavior 
might be comely in a love-lorn boy, a page 


to some grand princess ; but I, John Ridd, 
would never stoop to the lowering of love so. 

Nevertheless I heard of Lorna from my 
worthy furrier almost every day, and with 
a fine exaggeration. This honest man was 
one of those who, in virtue of their trade, 
and nicety of behavior, are admitted into 
noble life, to take measurements and show 
patterns. And while so doing, they contrive 
to acquire what is to the English mind at 
once the most important and most interest- 
ing of all knowledge — the science of being 
able to talk about the titled people. So my 
furrier (whose name was Ramsack), having 
to make robes for peers, and cloaks for their 
wives and otherwise, knew the great folk, 
sham or real, as well as he knew a fox or 
skunk from a wolverene skin. 

And when, with some fencing and foils of 
inquiry, I hinted about Lady Lorna Dugal, 
the old man’s face became so pleasant that 
I knew her birth must be wondrous high. 
At this my own countenance fell, I suppose 
— for the better she was born, the harder 
she would be to marry — and mistaking my 
object, he took me up. 

“Perhaps you think, Master Ridd, that 
because her ladyship, Lady Lorna Dugal, is 
of Scottish origin, therefore her birth is not 
as high as of our English nobility. If you 
think so, you are wrong, sir. She comes not 
of the sandy Scotch race, with high cheek- 
bones and raw shoulder-blades, who set up 
pillars in their court -yards, but she comes 
of the very best Scotch blood, descended 
from the Norsemen. Her mother was of the 
very noblest race, the Lords of Lome ; high- 
er even than the great Argyle, who has late- 
ly made a sad mistake, and paid for it most 
sadly. And her father was descended from 
the King Dugal, who fought against Alexan- 
der the Great. No, no, Master Ridd, none 
of your promiscuous blood, such as runs in 
the veins of half our modern peerage.” 

“ Why should you trouble yourself about 
it, Master Ramsack ?” I replied : “ let them 
all go their own ways ; and let us all look 
up to them, whether they come by hook or 
crook.” 

“Not at all, not at all, my lad. That is 
not the way to regard it. We look up at 
the well-born men, and sideways at the base- 
born.” 

“ Then we are all base-born ourselves. I 
will look up to no man, except for what 
himself has done.” 

“ Come, Master Ridd, you might be lashed 
from Newgate to Tyburn and back again, 
once a week, for a twelvemonth, if some 
people heard you. Keep your tongue more 
close, young man, or here you lodge no lon- 
ger; albeit I love your company, which 
smells to me of the hay-field. Ah ! I have 
not seen a hay- field for nine -and -twenty 
years, John Ridd. The cursed moths keep 
me at home every day of the summer.” 


248 


LORNA DOONE. 


“Spread your furs on the hay-cocks/’ I 
answered, very boldly; “the indoor moth 
can not abide the presence of the outdoor 
ones.” 

“ Is it so ?” he answered : “ I never thought 
of that before. And yet I have known such 
strange things happen in the way of fur, 
that I can well believe it. If you only 
knew, John Ridd, the way in which they 
lay their eggs, and how they work tail-fore- 
most — ” 

“ Tell me nothing of the kind,” I replied, 
with equal confidence : “ they can not work 
tail- foremost ; and they have no tails to 
work with.” For I knew a little about 
grubs, and the ignorance concerning them, 
which we have no right to put up with. 
However, not to go into that (for the argu- 
ment lasted a fortnight ; and then was only 
come so far as to begin again), Master Ram- 
sack soon convinced me of the things I knew 
already — the excellence of Lorna’s birth, as 
well as her lofty place at Court, and beauty, 
and wealth, and elegance. But all these 
only made me sigh, and wish that I were 
born to them. 

From Master Ramsack I discovered that 
the nobleman to whose charge Lady Lorna 
had been committed by the Court of Chan- 
cery, was Earl Brandir of Lochawe, her poor 
mother’s uncle. For the Countess of Dugal 
was daughter, and only child, of the last Lord 
Lome, whose sister had married Sir Ensor 
Doone ; while he himself had married the 
sister of Earl Brandir. This nobleman had 
a country house near the village of Kensing- 
ton : and here his niece dwelt with him, 
when she was not in attendance on Her 
Majesty the Queen, who had taken a liking 
to her. Now since the King had begun to 
attend the celebration of mass in the chapel 
at Whitehall — and not at Westminster Ab- 
bey, as our gossips had averred — he had 
given order that the doors should be thrown 
open, so that all who could make interest 
to get into the antechamber might see this 
form of worship. Master Ramsack told me 
that Lorna was there almost every Sunday ; 
their Majesties being most anxious to have 
the presence of all the nobility of the Cath- 
olic persuasion, so as to make a goodly 
show. And the worthy furrier, having in- 
fluence with the door-keepers, kindly obtain- 
ed admittance for me, one Sunday, into the 
antechamber. 

Here I took care to be in waiting, before 
the Royal procession entered ; but being un- 
known, and of no high rank, I was not allow- 
ed to stand forward among the better peo- 
ple, but ordered back into a corner very dark 
and dismal ; the verger remarking, with a 
: grin, that I could see over all other heads, 
and must not set my own so high. Being 
frightened to find myself among so many 
people of great rank and gorgeous apparel, 
I blushed at the notice drawn upon me by 


this uncourteous fellow, and silently fell back 
into the corner by the hangings. 

You may suppose that my heart beat high 
when the King and Queen appeared and en- 
tered, followed by the Duke of Norfolk bear- 
ing the sword of state, and by several other 
noblemen and people of repute. Then the 
doors of the chapel were thrown wide open ; 
and though I could only see a little, being 
in the corner so, I thought that it was beau- 
tiful. Bowers of rich silk were there, and 
plenty of metal shining, and polished wood 
with lovely carving ; flowers, too, of the 
noblest kind, and candles made by some- 
body who had learned how to clarify tallow. 
This last thing amazed me more than all;- 
for our dips never will come clear, melt the 
mutton-fat how you will. And methought 
that this hanging of flowers about was a 
very pretty thing ; for if a man can worship 
God best of all beneath a tree, as the natural 
instinct is, surely when, by fault of climate, 
the tree would be too apt to drip, the very 
best make-believe is to have enough and to 
spare of flowers; which to the dwellers in 
London seem to have grown on the tree de- * 
nied them. 

Be that as it may, when the King and 
Queen crossed the threshold, a mighty flour- 
ish of trumpets arose, and a waving of ban- 
ners. The Knights of the Garter (whoever 
they be) were to attend that day in state ; 
and some went in, and some staid out, and it 
made me think of the difference betwixt the 
ewes and the wethers. For the ewes will 
go wherever you lead them ; but the wethers 
will not, having strong opinions, and mean- 
ing to abide by them. And one man I no- 
ticed was of the wethers, to wit, the Duke 
of Norfolk, who stopped outside with the 
sword of state, like a beadle with a rap- 
ping-rod. This has taken more to tell than 
the time it happened in. For after all the 
men were gone, some to this side, some to 
that, according to their feelings, a number 
of ladies, beautifully dressed, being of the 
Queen’s retinue, began to enter, and were 
stared at three times as much as the men 
had been. And indeed they were worth 
looking at (which men never are, to my 
ideas, when they trick themselves with gew- 
gaws), but none was so well worth eye-serv- 
ice as my own beloved Lorna. She entered 
modestly and shyly, with her eyes upon the 
ground, knowing the rudeness of the gal- 
lants, and the large sum she was priced at. 
Her dress was of the purest white, very 
sweet and simple, without a line of orna- 
ment, for she herself adorned it. The way 
she walked, and touched her skirt (rather 
than seemed to hold it up), with a white 
hand bearing one red rose, this, and her 
stately supple neck, and the flowing of her 
hair, would show at a distance of a. hundred 
yards that she could be none but Lorna 
Doone. Lorna Doone of my early love; in 


LORNA DOONE. 


24 & 


the days when she blushed for her name be- 
fore me, by reason of dishonesty ; hut now 
the Lady Lorn a Dugal ; as far beyond re- 
proach as above my poor affection. All my 
heart and all my mind gathered themselves 
upon her. Would she see me, or would she 
pass ? Was there instinct in our love f 

By some strange chance she saw me. Or 
was it through our destiny? While with 
eyes kept sedulously on the marble floor, to 
shun the weight of admiration thrust too 
boldly on them, while with shy quick steps 
she passed, some one (perhaps with purpose) 
trod on the skirt of her clear white dress; 
with the quickness taught her by many a 
scene of danger, she looked up, and her eyes 
met mine. 

As I gazed upon her steadfastly, yearning- 
ly, yet with some reproach, and more of pride 
than humility, she made me one of the court- 
ly bows which I do so much detest; yet 
even that was sweet and graceful when my 
Lorna did it. But the color of her pure 
clear cheeks was nearly as deep as that of 
my own, when she went on for the religious 
work. And the shining of her eyes was 
owing to an unpaid debt of tears. 

Upon the whole, I was satisfied. Lorna 
had seen me, and had not (according to the 
phrase of the high world then) even tried to 
“ cut ” me. Whether this low phrase is born 
of their own stupid meanness, or whether it 
comes of necessity exercised on a man with- 
out money, I know not, and I care not. But 
one thing I know right well ; any man who 
“ cuts ” a man (except for vice or meanness) 
should be quartered without quarter. 

All these proud thoughts rose within me 
as the lovely form of Lorna went inside, 
and was no more seen. And then I felt 
how coarse I was; how apt to think strong 
thoughts, and so on ; without brains to bear 
me out : even as a hen’s egg laid, without 
enough of lime, and looking only a poor 
jelly. 

Nevertheless, I waited on, as my usual 
manner is. For to be beaten while running 
away, is ten times worse than to face it out, 
and take it, and have done with it. So at 
least I have always found, because of re- 
proach of conscience: and all the things 
those clever people carried on inside at 
large made me long for our Parson Bowden 
that he might know how to act. 

While I stored up in my memory enough 
to keep our parson going through six pipes 
on a Saturday night — to have it as right as 
could be next day— a lean man with a yellow 
beard, too thin for a good Catholic (which 
religion always fattens), came up to me, 
working sideways, in the manner of a female 
crab. 

“This is not to my liking,” I said; “if 
aught thou hast, speak plainly, while they 
make that horrible noise inside.” 

Nothing had this man to say ; but with 


many sighs, because I was not of the proper 
faith, he took my reprobate hand to save 
me, and with several religious tears looked 
up at me, and winked with one eye. Al- 
though the skin of my palms was thick, I 
felt a little suggestion there, as of a gentle 
leaf in spring, fearing to seem too forward. 
I paid the man, and he went happy ; for the 
standard of heretical silver is purer than 
that of the Catholics. 

Then I lifted up my little billet ; and in 
that dark corner read it, with a strong rain- 
bow of colors coming from the angled light. 
And in mine eyes there was enough to make 
rainbow of strongest sun, as my anger cloud- 
ed off. 

Not that it began so well, but that in my 
heart I knew (ere three lines were through 
me) that I was with all heart loved — and 
beyond that, who may need ? The darling 
of my life went on as if I were of her own 
rank, or even better than she was ; and she 
dotted her “ i’s ” and crossed her “ t’s ” as if 
I were at least a school -master. All of it 
was done in pencil, but as plain as plain 
could be. ' In my coffin it shall lie, with my 
ring and something else. Therefore will I 
not expose it to every man who buys this 
book, and haply thinks that he has bought 
me to the bottom of my heart. Enough for 
men of gentle birth (who never are iuquisi- 
tive) that my love told me, in her letter, 
just to come and see her. 

I ran away, and could not stop. To be- 
hold even her at the moment would have 
dashed my fancy’s joy. Yet my brain was 
so amiss, that I must do something. There- 
fore to the river Thames, with all speed, I 
hurried ; and keeping all my best clothes on 
(indued for sake of Lorna), into the quiet 
stream I leaped, and swam as far as London 
Bridge, and ate noble dinner afterward. 


CHAPTER LXVII. 

1.0 RN A STILL IS LORNA. 

Although a man may be as simple as the 
flowers of the field; knowing when, but 
scarcely why, he closes to the bitter wind ; 
and feeling why, but scarcely when, he opens 
to the genial sun ; yet without his questing 
much into the capsule of himself — to do 
which is a misery — he may have a general 
notion how he happens to be getting on. 

I felt myself to be getting on better than, 
at any time since the last wheat-harvest, as 
I took the lane to Kensington upon the Mon- 
day evening. For although no time was 
given in my Lorna’s letter, I was not in- 
clined to wait more than decency required. 
And though I went and watched the house, 
decency would not allow me to knock on 
the Sunday evening, especially when I found 
at the corner that his lordship was at home. 


250 


LORNA DOONE. 


The lanes and fields between Charing Cross 
and the village of Kensington are, or were 
at that time, more than reasonably infested 
with footpads and with highwaymen. How- 
ever, my stature and holly-club kept these 
fellows from doing more than casting sheeps’ 
eyes at me. For it was still broad daylight, 
and the view of the distant villages, Chelsea, 
Battersea, Tyburn, and others, as well as a 
few large houses, among the hams and to- 
ward the river, made it seem less lonely. 
Therefore I sang a song in the broadest Ex- 
moor dialect, which caused no little amaze- 
ment in the minds of all who met me. 

When I came to Earl Brandir’s house, my 
natural modesty forbade me to appear at the 
door for guests ; therefore I went to the en- 
trance for servants and retainers. Here, to 
my great surprise, who should come and let 
me in but little Gwenny Carfax, whose very 
existence had almost escaped my recollec- 
tion. Her mistress, no doubt, had seen me 
coming, and sent her to save trouble. But 
when I offered to kiss Gwenny, in my joy 
and comfort to see a farm-house face again, 
she looked ashamed, and turned away, and 
would hardly speak to me. 

I followed her to a little room, furnished 
very daintily, and there she ordered me to 
wait, in a most ungracious manner. “ Well,” 
thought I, “ if the mistress and the maid are 
alike in temper, better it had been for me 
to abide at Master Ramsack’s.” But almost 
ere my thought was done, I heard the light 
quick step which I knew as well as “ Watch,” 
my dog, knew mine ; and my breast began 
to tremble, like the trembling of an arch ere 
the key-stone is put in. 

Almost ere I hoped — for fear and hope 
were so entangled that they hindered one 
another — the velvet hangings of the door- 
way parted with a little doubt, and then a 
good face put on it. Lorna, in her per- 
fect beauty, stood before the crimson folds, 
and her dress w r as all pure white, and her 
cheeks were rosy pink, and her lips were 
scarlet. 

Like a maiden, with skill and sense check- 
ing violent impulse, she staid there for one 
moment only, just to be admired : and then, 
like a woman, she came to me, seeing how 
alarmed I was. The hand she offered me I 
took, and raised it to my lips with fear, as 
a thing too good for me. “Is that all?” 
she whispered ; and then her eyes gleamed 
up at me, and in another instant she was 
weeping on my breast. 

“ Darling Lorna, Lady Lorna,” I cried, in 
astonishment, yet unable but to keep her 
closer to me, and closer ; “ surely, though I 
love you so, this is not as it should be.” 

“ Yes, it is, John. Yes, it is. Nothing else 
should ever be. Oh, why have you behaved 
so ?” 

“ I am behaving,” I replied, “ to the very 
best of my ability. There is no other man 


j in the world could hold you so without kiss- 
ing you.” 

“Then why don’t you do it, John ?” asked 
Lorna, looking up at me, with a flash of her 
old fun. 

Now this matter, proverbially, is not for 
discussion and repetition. Enough that we 
said nothing more than, “Oh, John, how 
glad I am !” and “ Lorna, Lorna, Lorna !” for 
about five minutes. Then my darling drew 
back proudly, with blushing cheeks, and 
tear-bright eyes, she began to cross-examine 
me. 

“Master John Ridd, you shall tell the 
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the 
troith. I have been in Chancery, sir; and 
can detect a story. Now why have you 
never, for more than a twelvemonth, taken 
the smallest notice of your old friend, Mis^ 
tress Lorna Doone?” Although she spoke 
in this lightsome manner, as if it made no 
difference, I saw that her quick heart was 
moving, and the flash of her eyes controlled. 

“ Simply for this cause,” I answered, “that 
my old friend and true-love took not the 
smallest heed of me. Nor knew I where to 
find her.” 

“ What !” cried Lorna, and nothing more, 
being overcome with wondering; and much 
inclined to fall away, but for my assistance. 
I told her, over and over again, that not a 
single syllable of any message from her, or 
tidings of her welfare, had reached me or 
any one of us, since the letter she left behind, 
except by soldiers’ gossip. 

“Oh, you poor dear John!” said Lorna, 
sighing at thought of my misery; “how 
wonderfully good of you, thinking of me as 
you must have done, not to marry that lit- 
tle plain thing (or perhaps I should say that 
lovely creature, for I have never seen her), 
Mistress Ruth — I forget her name ; but some- 
thing like a towel.” 

“ Ruth Huckaback is a worthy maid,” I 
answered, with some dignity; “and she 
alone of all our world, except indeed poor 
Annie, has kept her confidence in you, and 
told me not to dread your rank, but trust 
your heart, Lady Lorna.” 

“ Then Ruth is my best friend,” she an- 
swered, “and is worthy of you, John. And 
now remember one thing, dear; if God should 
part us, as maybe by nothing short of death, 
try to marry that little Ruth when you 
cease to remember me. And now for the 
head-traitor. I have often suspected it; 
but she looks me in the face and wishes — 
fearful things, which I can not repeat.” 

With these words, she moved an imple- 
ment such as I had not seen before, and 
which made a ringing noise at a serious dis- 
tance. And before I had ceased wondering 
— for if such things go on, we might ring 
the church bells while sitting in our back 
kitchen — little Gwenny Carfax came, with a 
grave and sullen face. 


LORNA DOONE. 


251 


“Gwenny,” began my Lorna, in a tone 
of high rank and dignity, “go and fetch the 
letters which I gave yon at various times for 
dispatch to Mistress Ridd.” 

“How can I fetch them when they are 
gone ? It be no use for him to tell no lies — ” 

“Now, Gwenny, can you look at me?” I 
asked, very sternly ; for the matter was no 
joke to me, after a year’s unhappiness. 

“ I don’t want to look at ’ee. What should 
I look at a young man for, although he did 
offer to kiss me ?” 

I saw the spite and impudence of this last 
remark ; and so did Lorna, although she 
could not quite refrain from smiling. 

“ Now, Gwenny, not to speak of that,” said 
Lorna, very demurely, “if you thought it 
honest to keep the letters, was it honest to 
keep the money ?” 

At this the Cornish maiden broke into a 
rage of honesty: “A putt the money by for 
’ee. ’Ee shall have every farden of it.” 
And so she flung out of the room. 

“And, Gwenny,” said Lorna, very softly, 
following under the door-hangings ; “if it is 
not honest to keep the money, it is not hon- 
est to keep the letters, which would have 
been worth more than any gold to those who 
were so kind to you. Your father shall 
know the whole, Gwenny, unless you tell the 
truth.” 

“Now, a will tell all the truth,” this 
strange maiden answered, talking to herself 
at least as much as to her mistress, while she 
went out of sight and hearing. And then I 
w~as so glad at having my own Lorna once 
agaiu, cleared of all contempt for us, and true 
to me through all of it, that I would have 
forgiven Gwenny for treason, or even for- 
gery.” 

“I trusted her so much,” said Lorna, in her 
old ill-fortuned way ; “ and look how she has 
deceived me ! That is why I love yon, John 
{setting other things aside), because you nev- 
er told me falsehood ; and you never could, 
yon know.” 

“Well, I am not so sure of that. I think 
I could tell any lie, to have you, darling, all 
my own.” 

“Yes. And perhaps it might be right. 
To other people besides us two. But you 
could not do it to me, John. You never 
could do it to me, you know.” 

Before I could quite perceive my way to 
the bottom of this distinction — although be- 
yond doubt a valid one — Gwenny came back 
with a leathern bag, and tossed it upon the 
table. Not a word did she vouchsafe to us ; 
but stood there, looking injured. 

“Go and get your letters, John,” said Lor- 
na, very gravely ; “or at least your mother’s 
letters, made of messages to you. As for 
Gwenny, she shall go before Lord -justice 
Jeffreys.” I kuew that Lorna meant it not, 
but thought that the girl deserved a fright- 
ening, as indeed she did. But we both mis- 

O 7 


took the courage of this child of Cornwall. 
She stepped upon a little round thing in the 
nature of a stool, such as I never had seen 
before, and thus delivered her sentiments. 

“And you may take me, if you please, be- 
fore the great Lord Jefferays. I have done 
no more than duty, though I did it crook- 
edly, and told a heap of lies, for your sake. 
And pretty gratitude I gets.” 

“Much gratitude you have shown,” re- 
plied Lorna, “to Master Ridd, for all his 
kindness and his goodness to you. Who 
was it that went down, at the peril of his 
life, and brought your father to you, when 
you had lost him for mouths and months? 
Who was it ? Answer me, Gwenny ?” 

“ Girt Jan Ridd,” said the handmaid, very 
sulkily. 

“ What made you treat me so, little Gwen- 
ny ?” I asked, for Lorna would not ask, lest 
the reply should vex me. 

“Because ’ee be’est below her so. Her 
shanna’ have a poor farmering chap, not 
even if her were a Caruishmau. All her 
land, and all her birth — and who be you, 
I’d like to know ?” 

“ Gwenny, you may go,” said Lorna, red- 
dening with quiet anger ; “ and remember 
that you come not near me for the next 
three days. It is the only way to punish 
her,” she continued to me, when the maid 
was gone, in a storm of sobbing and weep- 
ing. “Now for the next three days she 
will scarcely touch a morsel of food, and 
scarcely do a thing but cry. Make up your 
mind to one thing, John ; if you mean to 
take me, for better for worse, you will have 
to take Gwenny with me.” 

“ I would take you with fifty Gwennies,” 
said I, “ although every one of them hated 
me, which I do not believe this little maid 
does, in the bottom of her heart.” 

“No one can possibly hate you, John,” 
she answered, very softly ; and I was bet- 
ter pleased with this than if she had called 
me the most noble and glorious man in the 
kingdom. 

After this we spoke of ourselves, and the 
way people would regard us, supposing that 
when Lorna came to be her own free mis- 
tress (as she must do in the course of time) 
she were to throw her rank aside, and refuse 
her title, and caring not a fig for folk who 
cared less than a fig -stalk for her, should 
shape her mind to its native bent, and to 
my perfect happiness. It was not my place 
to say much, lest I should appear to use 
an improper and selfish influence. And of 
course to all men of common sense, and to 
every body of middle age (who must know 
best what is good for youth), the thoughts 
which my Lorna entertained would be enough 
to prove her madness. 

Not that we could not keep her well, com- 
fortably, and with nice clothes, and plenty 
of flowers, and fruit, and landscape, and the 


252 


LORNA DOONE. 


knowledge of our neighbors’ affairs, and their 
kind interest in our own. Still this would not 
be as if she were the owner of a county, and a 
haughty title, and able to lead the first men 
of the age by her mind, and face, and money. 

Therefore was I quite resolved not to 
have a word to say while this young queen 
of wealth and beauty, and of noblemen’s de- 
sire, made her mind up how to act for her 
purest happiness. But to do her justice, 
this was not the first thing she was think- 
ing of; the test of her judgment was only 
this : “ How will my love be happiest ?” 

“Now, John,” she cried, for she was so 
quick that she always had my thoughts be- 
forehand, “ why will you be backward, as if 
you cared not for me ? Do you dream that 
I am doubting? My mind has been made 
up, good John, that you must be my hus- 
band for — well, I will not say how long, 
lest you should laugh at my folly. But I 
believe it was ever since you came, with 
your stockings off, and the loaches. Right 
early for me to make up my mind ; but you 
know that you made up yours, John, and of 
course I knew it; and that had a great ef- 
fect on me. Now, after all this age of lov- 
ing, shall a trifle sever us ?” 

I told her that it was no trifle, but a most 
important thing to abandon wealth, and hon- 
or, and the brilliance of high life, and be de- 
spised by every one for such abundant folly. 
Moreover, that I should appear a knave for 
taking advantage of her youth, and bound- 
less generosity, and ruining (as men would 
say) a noble maid by my selfishness. And I 
told her outright, having worked myself up 
by my own conversation, that she was bound 
to consult her guardian, and that without 
his knowledge I would come no more to see 
her. Her flash of pride at these last words 
made her look like an empress ; and I was 
about to explain myself better, but she put 
forth her hand and stopped me. 

“ I think that condition should rather have 
proceeded from me. You are mistaken, Mas- 
ter Ridd, in supposing that I would think of 
receiving you in secret. It was a different 
thing in Glen Doone, where all except your- 
self were thieves, and when I was but a 
simple child, and oppressed with constant 
fear. You are quite right in threatening 
to visit me thus no more ; but I think you 
might have waited for an invitation, sir.” 

“And you are quite right, Lady Lorna, in 
pointing out my presumption. It is a fault 
that must ever be found in any speech of 
mine to you.” 

This I said so humbly, and not with any 
bitterness — for I knew that I had gone too 
far — and made her so polite a bow, that she 
forgave me in a moment, and we begged 
each other’s pardon. 

“Now, will you allow me just to explain 
my own view of this matter, John ?” said 
she, “ once more my darling. It may be a 


very foolish view, but I shall never change 
it. Please not to interrupt me, dear, until 
you have heard me to the end. In the first 
place, it is quite certain that neither you 
nor I can be happy without the other. 
Then what stands between us? Worldly 
position, and nothing else. I have no more 
education than you have, John Ridd; nay, 
and not so much. My birth and ancestry 
are not one whit more pure than yours, al- 
though they may be better known. Your de- 
scent from ancient freeholders for five-and- 
twenty generations of good, honest men, al- 
though you bear no coat of arms, is better 
th^n the lineage of nine proud Euglish no- 
blemen out of every ten I meet with. In 
manners, though your mighty strength, and 
hatred of any meanness, sometimes break 
out in violence — of which I must try to 
cure you, dear — in manners, if kindness, and 
gentleness, and modesty are the true things 
wanted, you are immeasurably above any of 
our court - gallants, who indeed have very 
little. As for difference of religion, we al- 
low for one another, neither having been 
brought up in a bitterly pious manner.” 

Here, though the tears were in my eyes 
at the loving things love said of me, I could 
not help a little la igh at the notion of any 
bitter piety being found among the Doones, 
or even in mother, for that matter. Lorna 
smiled in her slyest manner, and went on 
again : 

“ Now, you see, I have proved my point ; 
there is nothing between us but worldly 
position — if you can defend me against the 
Doones, for which, I trow, I may trust you. 
And worldly position means wealth, and 
title, and the right to be in great houses, 
and the pleasure of being envied. I have 
not been here for a year, John, without 
learning something. Oh, I hate it ; how I 
hate it ! Of all the people I know, there are 
but two besides my uncle who do not either 
covet or detest me. And who are those two, 
think you ?” 

“Gwenny, for one,” I answered. 

“ Yes, Gwenny for one, and the Queen for 
the other. The one is too far below me (I 
mean, in her own opinion), and the other too 
high above. As for the women who dislike 
me, without having even heard my voice, I 
simply have nothing to do with them. As 
for the men who covet me for my land and 
money, I merely compare them with you, 
John Ridd, and all thought of them is over. 
Oh, John, you must never forsake me, how- 
ever cross I am to you. I thought you would 
have gone just now ; and though I would 
not move to stop you, my heart would have 
broken.” 

“You don’t catch me go in a hurry,” I 
answered very sensibly, “ when the loveliest 
maiden in the world, and the best and the 
dearest, loves me. All my fear of you is 
gone, darling Lorna, all my fear — ” 


LOENA DOONE. 


253 


‘‘Is it possible you could fear me, John, 
after all we have been through together? 
Now you promised not to interrupt me ; is 
this fair behavior ? Well, let me see where 
I left off — oh, that my heart would have 
broken. Upon that point, I will say no 
more, lest you should grow conceited, John ; 
if any thing could make you so. But I 
do assure you that half London — however, 
upon that point also I will check my pow- 
er of speech, lest you think me conceited. 
And now to put aside all nonsense ; though 
I have talked none for a year, John, having 
been so unhappy ; and now it is such a re- 
lief to me — ” 

“ Then talk it for an hour,” said I ; “ and 
let me sit and watch you. To me it is the 
very sweetest of all sweetest wisdom.” 

“Nay, there is no time,” she answered, 
glancing at a jeweled time-piece, scarcely 
larger than an oyster, which she drew from 
near her waistband; and then she pushed 
it away in confusion, lest its wealth should 
startle me. “ My uncle will come home in 
less than half an hour, dear, and you are 
not the one to take a side-passage, and avoid 
him. I shall tell him that you have been 
here, and that I mean you to come again.” 

As Lorna said this, with a manner as con- 
fident as need be, I saw that she had learned 
in town the power of her beauty, and knew 
that she could do with most men aught she 
set her mind upon. And as she stood there, 
flushed with pride and faith in her own love- 
liness, and radiant with the love itself, I felt 
that she must do exactly as she pleased with 
every one. For now, in turn, and elegance, 
and richness, and variety, there was nothing 
to compare with her face, unless it were her 
figure. Therefore I gave in, and said, 

“ Darling, do just what you please. Only 
make no rogue of me.” 

For that she gave me the simplest, kind- 
est, and sweetest of all kisses ; and I went 
down the stairs grandly, thinking of noth- 
ing else but that. 


CHAPTER LXVIII. 

JOHN IS JOHN NO LONGER. 

It would be hard for me to tell the state 
of mind in which I lived for a long time af- 
ter this. I put away from me all torment, 
and the thought of future cares, and the 
sight of difficulty, and to myself appeared ; 
which meaus that I became the luckiest of 
lucky fellows since the world itself began. 
I thought not of the harvest even, nor of 
the men who would get their wages with- 
out having earned them, nor of my moth- 
er’s anxiety and worry about John Fry’s 
great fatness (which was growing upon 
him), and how she would cry fifty times in 
a, day, “Ah, if our John would only come 
borne, how different every thing would look !” 


Although there were no soldiers now 
quartered at Plover’s Barrows, all being 
busied in harassing the country, and hang- 
ing the people where the rebellion had 
thriven most, my mother, having received 
from me a message containing my place of 
abode, contrived to send me by the pack- 
horses as fine a maund as need be of provis- 
ions, and money, and other comforts. There- 
in I found addressed to Colonel Jeremiah 
Stickles, in Lizzie’s best handwriting, half a 
side of the dried deer’s flesh, in which he re- 
j oiced so greatly. Also, for Lorna, a fine green 
goose, with a little salt toward the tail, and 
new-laid eggs inside it, as well as a bottle 
of brandied cherries, and seven, or it may 
have been eight pounds of fresh home-made 
butter. Moreover, to myself there was a 
letter full of good advice, excellently well 
expressed, and would have been of the great- 
est value, if I had cared to read it. But I 
read all about the farm affairs, and the man 
who had offered himself to our Betty for the 
five pounds in her stocking, as well as the 
antics of Sally Suowe, and how she had al- 
most thrown herself at Parson Bowden’s 
head (old enough to be her grandfather), be- 
cause on the Sunday after the hanging of a 
Countisbury man he had preached a beauti- 
ful sermon about Christian love ; which Liz- 
zie, with her sharp eyes, found to be the 
work of good Bishop Ken. Also I read that 
the Doones were quiet ; the parishes round 
about having united to feed them well 
through the harvest-time, so that after the 
day’s hard work the farmers might go to 
bed at night. And this plan had been found 
to answer well, and to save much trouble on 
both sides ; so that every body wondered it 
had not been done before. But Lizzie thought 
that the Doones could hardly be expected 
much longer to put up with it, and probably 
would not have done so now, but for a little 
adversity ; to wit, that the famous Colonel 
Kirke had, in the most outrageous manner, 
hanged no less than six of them, who were 
captured among the rebels ; for he said that 
men of their rank and breeding, and above 
all of their religion, should have known bet- 
ter than to join plow-boys, and carters, and 
pickaxe- men, against our Lord the King, 
and his holy Holiness the Pope. This hang- 
ing of so many Doones caused some indigna- 
tion among people who were used to them ; 
and it seemed for a while to check the rest 
from any spirit of enterprise. 

Moreover, I found from this same letter 
(which was pinned upon the knuckle of a 
leg of mutton, for fear of being lost in straw) 
that good Tom Faggus was at home again, 
and nearly cured of his dreadful wound; 
but intended to go to war no more, only to 
mind his family. And it grieved him more 
than any thing he ever could have imagined, 
that his duty to his family, and the strong 
power of bis conscience, so totally forbade 


254 


LORNA DOONE. 


him to come up and see after me. For now 
his desigu was to lead a uew life, and be 
iu charity with all men. Many better men 
than he had been banged, he saw no cause 
to doubt ; but by the grace of God he hoped 
himself to cheat the gallows. 

There was no further news of moment in 
this very clever letter, except that the price 
of horses’ shoes was gone up again, though 
already twopence - farthing each, and that 
Betty had broken her lover’s head with the 
stocking full of money ; and then in the cor- 
ner it w'as written that the distinguished 
man of war, and worshipful scholar, Master 
Bloxham, was now promoted to take the 
tolls, and catch all the rebels around our 
part. 

Lorna was greatly pleased with the goose, 
aud the butter, and the brandied cherries ; 
and the Earl Brandir himself declared that 
he never tasted better than those last, and 
would beg the young man from the coun- 
try to procure him instructions for making 
them. This nobleman being as deaf as a 
post, and of a very solid mind, could never 
be brought to understand the nature of my 
thoughts toward Lorna. He looked upon 
me as an excellent youth, who had rescued 
the maiden from the Doones, whom he cor- 
dially detested ; and learning that I had 
thrown two of them out of window (as the 
story was told him), he patted me on the 
back, and declared that his doors would 
ever be open to me, and that I could not come 
too often. 

I thought this very kind of his lordship, 
especially as it enabled me to see my darling 
Lorna, not indeed as often as I wished, but 
at any rate very frequently, and as many 
times as modesty (ever my leading princi- 
ple) would in common conscience approve 
of. And I made up my mind that if ever I 
could help Earl Brandir, it would be — as 
we say, when with brandy-and- water — the 
“ proudest moment of my life” when I could 
fulfill the pledge. 

And I soon was able to help Lord Brandir, 
as I think, in two different ways ; first of all 
as regarded his mind, and then as concerned 
his body; and the latter, perhaps, was the 
greatest service at his time of life. But not 
to be too nice about that, let me tell how 
these things were. 

Lorna said to me one day, being in a state 
of excitement — whereto she was overprone, 
when reft of my slowness to steady her, 

“I will tell him, John ; I must tell him, 
John. It is mean of me to conceal it.” 

I thought that she meant all about our 
love, which we had endeavored thrice to 
drill into his fine old ears, but could not 
make him comprehend, without risk of 
bringing the house down ; and so I said, 
“By all means, darling: have another try 
at it.” 

Lorna, however, looked at me — for her 


eyes told more than tongue — as much as to 
say, “Well, you are a stupid. We agreed 
to let that subject rest.” And then she saw 
that I was vexed at my own want of quick- 
ness ; and so she spoke very kindly, 

“ I meant about his poor sou, dearest ; the 
son of his old age almost ; whose loss threw 
him into that dreadful cold — for he went, 
without hat, to look for him — which ended 
in his losing the use of his dear old ears. I 
believe if we could only get him to Plover’s 
Barrows for a month, he would be able to 
hear again. And look at his age ! he is not 
much over seventy, John, you know ; and I 
hope that you will be able to hear me long 
after you are seventy, John.” 

“ Well,” said I, “ God settles that ; or at 
any rate He leaves us time to think about 
those questions when we are over fifty. 
Now let me know what you want, Lorna. 
The idea of my being seventy! But you 
would still be beautiful.” 

“ To the one who loves me,” she answered, 
trying to make wrinkles in her pure bright 
forehead: “but if you will have common 
sense — as you always will, John, whether 
I wish it or otherwise — I want to know 
whether I am bound, in honor and in con- 
science, to tell my dear and good old uncle 
what I know about his son ?” 

“ First, let me understand quite clearly,” 
said I, never being in a hurry, except when 
passion moves me, “ what his lordship thinks 
at present, and how far his mind is urged 
with sorrow and anxiety.” This was not 
the first time we had spoken of the matter. 

“Why you know, John, well enough,” she 
answered, wondering at my coolness, “ that 
my poor uncle still believes that his one be- 
loved son will come to light and life again. 
He has made all arrangements accordingly : 
all his property is settled on that supposition. 
He knows that young Alan always was what 
he calls a ‘freckless ne’er-do-weel;’ but he 
loves him all the more for that. He can not 
believe that he will die without his son com- 
ing back to him, and he always has a bed- 
room ready, and a bottle of Alan’s favorite 
wine cool from out the cellar ; he has made 
me work him a pair of slippers from the 
size of a mouldy boot ; and if he hears of a 
new tobacco — much as he hates the smell 
of it — he will go to the other end of Lon- 
don to get some for Alan. Now you know 
how deaf he is; but if any one say ‘Alan,’ 
even in the place outside the door, he will 
make his courteous bow to the very highest 
visitor, and be out there in a moment, and 
search the entire passage, and yet let no one 
know it.” 

“ It is a piteous thing,” I said ; for Lorna’s 
eyes were full of tears. 

“And he means me to marry him. It is 
the pet scheme of his life. I am to grow 
more beautiful, and more highly taught, and 
graceful, until it pleases Alan to come back 


LORNA DOONE. 


255 


s 


and demand me. Can you understand this 
matter, John ? Or do you think my uncle 
mad ?” 

“ Lorna, I should he mad myself, to call 
any other man mad for hoping.” 

“ Then will you tell me what to do ? It 
makes me very sorrowful. For I know that 
Alan Brandir lies below the sod in Doone- 
valley.” 

“And if you tell his father,” I answered 
softly, but clearly, “ in a few weeks he will 
lie below the sod in London ; at least, if 
there is any.” 

“Perhaps you are right, John,” she re- 
plied : “ to lose hope must be a dreadful 
thing when one is turned of seventy. There- 
fore I will never tell him.” 

The other way in which I managed to 
help the good Earl Brandir was of less true 
moment to him ; but as he could not know 
of the first, this was the one which moved 
him. And it happened pretty much as fol- 
lows — though I hardly like to tell, because 
it advanced me to such a height as I myself 
was giddy at ; and which all my friends re- 
sented greatly (save those of my own fam- 
ily), and even now are sometimes bitter, 
in spite of all my humility. Now this is 
a matter of history, because the King was 
concerned in it ; and being so strongly mis- 
understood, especially in my own neighbor- 
hood, I will overcome (so far as I can) my 
diffidence in telling it. 

The good Earl Brandir was a man of the 
noblest charity. True charity begins at 
home, and so did his; and was afraid of 
losing the way, if it went abroad. So this 
good nobleman kept his money in a hand- 
some pewter box, with his coat of arms upon 
it, and a double lid and locks. Moreover, 
there was a heavy chain, fixed to a staple 
in the wall, so that none might carry off 1 
the pewter with the gold inside of it. Lor- 
na told me the box was full, for she had 
seen him go to it; and she often thought 
that it would be nice for us to begin the 
world with. I told her that she must not 
allow her mind to dwell upon things of 
this sort, being wholly against the last 
commandment set up in our church at Oare. 

Now one evening toward September, when 
the days were drawing in, looking back at 
the house to see whether Lorna were look- 
ing after me, I espied (by a little glimpse, as 
it were) a pair of villainous fellows (about 
whom there could be no mistake) watch- 
ing from the thicket-corner, some hundred 
yards or so behind the good Earl’s dwell- 
ing. “ There is mischief afoot,” thought I 
to myself, being thoroughly conversant with 
theft, from my knowledge of the Doones ; 
“ how will be the moon to-night, and when 
may we expect the watch ?” 

I found that neither moon nor watch could 
be looked for until the morning ; the moon, 
of course, before the watch, and more likely 


to be punctual. Therefore I resolved to wait, 
and see what those two villains did, and save 
(if it were possible) the Earl of Brandir’s 
pewter box. But inasmuch as those bad 
men were almost sure to have seen me leav- 
ing the house and looking back, and strik- 
ing out on the London road, I marched along 
at a merry pace, until they could not discern 
me ; and then I fetched a compass round, 
and refreshed myself at a certain inn, en- 
titled “ The Cross-bones and Buttons.” 

Here I remained until it was very nearly 
as dark as pitch ; and the house being full 
of foot -pads and cut-throats, I thought it 
right to leave them. One or two came af- 
ter me, in the hope of designing a stratagem, 
but I dropped them in the darkness; and 
knowing all the neighborhood well, I took 
up my position, two hours before midnight, 
among the shrubs at the eastern end of Lord 
Brandir’s mansion. Hence, although I might 
not see, I could scarcely fail to hear if any 
unlawful entrance, either at back or front, 
were made. 

From my own observation, I thought it 
likely that the attack would be in the rear ; 
and so indeed it came to pass. For when 
all the lights were quenched, and all the 
house was quiet, I heard a low and wily 
whistle from a clump of trees close by ; and 
then three figures passed between me and a 
whitewashed wall, and came to a window 
which opened into a part of the servants’ 
basement. This window was carefully raised 
by some one inside the house ; and after a lit- 
tle whispering, and something which sound- 
ed like a kiss, all the three men entered. 

“ Oh, you villains !” I said to myself, “ this 
is worse than any Doone job, because there 
is treachery in it.” But without waiting to 
consider the subject from a moral point of 
view, I crept along the wall, and entered 
very quietly after them ; being rather un- 
easy about my life, because I bore no fire- 
arms, and had nothing more than my holly- 
staff for even a violent combat. 

To me this was matter of deep regret, as 
I followed these vile men inward. Never- 
theless I was resolved that my Lorna should 
not be robbed again. Through us (or at 
least through our Annie) she had lost that 
brilliant necklace, which then was her only 
birthright ; therefore it behooved me doubly 
to preserve the pewter box, which must be- 
long to her in the end, unless the thieves got 
hold of it. 

I went along very delicately (as a man 
who has learned to wrestle can do, although 
he may weigh twenty stone), following care- 
fully the light brought by the traitorous 
maid, and shaking in her loose, dishonest 
hand. I saw her lead the men into a little 
place called a pantry; and there she gave 
them cordials, and I could hear them boast- 
ing. 

Not to be too long over it — which they 


556 


LORNA DOONE. 


were much inclined to be — I followed them 
from this drinking-bout, by the aid of the 
light they bore, as far as Earl Brandir’s bed- 
room, which I knew, because Lorna had 
shown it to me, that I might admire the 
tapestry. But I had said that no horse 
could ever be shod as the horses were shod 
therein, unless he had the foot of a frog, as 
well as a frog to his foot. And Lorna had 
been vexed at this (as taste and high art al- 
ways are at any small accurate knowledge), 
.and so she had brought me out again before 
I had time to admire things. 

Now, keeping well away in the dark, yet 
nearer than was necessary to my own dear 
Lorna’s room, I saw these fellows try the 
door of the good Earl Brandir, knowing from 
the maid, of course, that his lordship could 
hear nothing except the name of Alan. They 
tried the lock, and pushed at it, and even 
set their knees upright ; but a Scottish no- 
bleman may be trusted to secure his door at 
night. So they were forced to break it open ; 
and at this the guilty maid, or woman, ran 
away. These three rogues — for rogues they 
.were, and no charity may deny it — burst 
into Earl Brandir’s room with a light, and a 
.crowbar, and fire-arms. I thought to my- 
self that this was hard upon an honest no- 
bleman, and if further mischief could be 
saved, I would try to save it. 

When I came to the door of the room, 
being myself in shadow, I beheld two bad 
men trying vainly to break open the pewter 
box, and the third with a pistol-muzzle laid 
to the night-cap of his lordship. With foul 
face and yet fouler words, this man was de- 
manding the key of the box, which the other 
men could by no means open, neither drag 
it from the chain. 

“ I tell you,” said this aged Earl, begin- 
ning to understand at last what these rogues 
were up for, “I will give no key to you. 
It all belongs to my boy, Alan. No one else 
shall have a farthing.” 

“Then you may count your moments, 
lord. The key is in your old cramped hand. 
One, two ; and at three I shoot you.” 

I saw that the old man was abroad ; not 
with fear, but with great wonder, and the 
regrets of deafness. And I saw that rather 
would he be shot than let these men go rob 
his son, buried now, or laid to bleach in the 
tangles of the wood, three, or it might be 
four years agone, but still alive to his father. 
Hereupon my heart was moved, and I re- 
solved to interfere. The thief with the pis- 
tol began to count, as I crossed the floor very 
quietly, while the old Earl fearfully gazed 
at the muzzle, but clenched still tighter his 
wrinkled hand. The villain, with hair all 
over his eyes, and the great horse-pistol lev- 
eled, cried “three,” and pulled the trigger; 
but luckily, at that very moment, I struck 
up the barrel with my staff, so that the shot 
pierced the tester, and then with a spin and 


a thwack I brought the good holly down 
upon the rascal’s head in a manner which 
stretched him upon the floor. 

Meanwhile the other two robbers had 
taken the alarm, and rushed at me, one 
with a pistol and one with a hanger, which 
forced me to be very lively. Fearing the 
pistol most, I flung the heavy velvet cur- 
tain of the bed across, that he might not see 
where to aim at me, and then stooping very 
quickly, I caught up the senseless robber, and 
set him up for a shield and target ; where- 
upon he was shot immediately, without hav- 
ing the pain of knowing it; and a happy 
thing it was for him. Now the other two 
were at my mercy, being men below the av- 
erage strength ; and no hanger, except in 
most skillful hands, as well as firm and 
strong ones, has any chance to a powerful 
man armed with a stout cudgel, and thor- 
oughly practiced in single-stick. 

So I took these two rogues, and bound 
them together; and leaving them under 
charge of the butler (a worthy and shrewd 
Scotchman), I myself went in search of the 
constables, whom, after some few hours, I 
found ; neither were they so drunk but what 
they could take roped men to prison. In 
the morning these two men were brought 
before the justices of the peace. And now 
my wonderful luck appeared ; for the merit 
of having defeated and caught them would 
never have raised me one step in the State, 
or in public consideration, if they had only 
been common robbers, or even notorious 
murderers. But when these fellows were 
recognized by some one in the court as Prot- 
estant witnesses out of employment, com- 
panions and understrappers to Oates, and 
Bedloe, and Carstairs, and hand in glove 
with Dangerfield, Turberville, and Dugdale 
— in a word, the very men against whom His 
Majesty the King bore the bitterest rancor, 
but whom he had hitherto failed to catch — 
when this was laid before the public (with 
emphasis and admiration), at least a dozen 
men came up whom I had never seen before, 
and prayed me to accept their congratula- 
tions, and to be sure to remember them ; for 
all were of neglected merit, and required no 
more than a piece of luck. 

I answered them very modestly, and each 
according to his worth, as stated by himself, 
who of course could judge the best. The 
magistrate made me many compliments, ten 
times more than I deserved, and took good 
care to have them copied, that His Majesty 
might see them. And ere the case was 
thoroughly heard, and those poor fellows 
were committed, more than a score of gen- 
erous men had offered to lend me a hundred 
pounds, wherewith to buy a new court suit 
when called before His Majesty. 

Now this may seem very strange to us 
who live in a better and purer age — or say 
at least that we do so — and yet who are 


LORNA DOONE. 


257 


we to condemn onr fathers for teaching us j 
better manners, and at their own expense? 
With these points any virtuous man is bound 
to deal quite tenderly, making allowance for 
corruption, and not being too sure of him- 
self. And to tell the truth, although I had 
seen so little of the world as yet, that which 
astonished me in the matter was not so much 
that they paid me court, as that they found 
out so soon the expediency of doing it. 

In the course of that same afternoon I was 
sent for by His Majesty. He had summon- 
ed first the good Earl Brandir, and received 
the tale from him, not without exaggeration, 
although my lord was a Scotchman. But 
the chief thing His Majesty cared to know 
was that, beyond all possible doubt, these 
were the very precious fellows from perjury 
turned to robbery. 

Being fully assured at last of this, His 
Majesty had rubbed his hands, and order- 
ed the boots of a stricter pattern (which he 
himself had invented) to be brought at once, 
that he might have them in the best possi- 
ble order. And he oiled them himself, and 
expressed his fear that there was no man 
in London quite competent to work them. 
Nevertheless he would try one or two, rath- 
er than wait for his pleasure till the torturer 
came from Edinburgh. 

The next thing he did was to send for me ; 
and in great alarm and flurry I put on my 
best clothes, and hired a fashionable hair- 
dresser, and drank half a gallon of ale, be- 
cause both my hands were shaking. Then 
forth I set, with my holly staff, wishing my- 
self well out of it. I was shown at once, 
and before I desired it, into His Majesty’s 
presence ; and there I stood most humbly, 
and made the best bow I could think of. 

As I could not advance any farther — for 
I saw that the Queen was present, which 
frightened me tenfold — His Majesty, in the 
most gracious manner, came down the room 
to encourage me. And as I remained with 
my head bent down, he told me to stand up 
and look at him. 

“ I have seen thee before, young man,” he 
said ; “thy form is not one to be forgotten. 
Where was it? Thou art most likely to know.” 

“ May it please Your Most Gracious Majes- 
ty the King,” I answered, finding my voice 
in a manner which surprised myself, “it 
was in the Royal Chapel.” 

Now I meant no harm whatever by this. 
I ought to have said the “ Antechapel ;” but 
I could not remember the word, and feared 
to keep the King looking at me. 

“I am well pleased,” said His Majesty, 
with a smile which almost made his dark 
and stubborn face look pleasant, “ to find 
that our greatest subject, greatest, I mean, 
in the bodily form, is a good Catholic. Thou 
needest not say otherwise. The time shall 
be, and that right soon, when men shall be 
proud of the one true faith.” Here he stop- 
17 


ped, having gone rather far ; but the gleam 
of his heavy eyes was such that I durst not 
contradict. 

“This is that great Johann Reed,” said 
Her Majesty, coming forward, because the 
King was in meditation, “ for whom I have 
so much heard from the dear, dear Lorna. 
Ah ! she is not of this black countree, she 
of the breet Italie.” 

I have tried to write it as she said it, but 
it wants a better scholar to express her mode 
of speech. » 

“ Now, John Ridd,” said the King, recover- 
ing from his thoughts about the true Church, 
and thinking that his wife was not to take 
the lead upon me; “thou hast done great 
service to the realm, and to religion. It 
was good to save Earl Brandir, a loyal and 
Catholic nobleman ; but it was great service 
to catch two of the vilest blood-hounds ever 
laid on by heretics. And to make them 
shoot another, it was rare ; it was rare, my 
lad. Now ask us any thing in reason ; thou 
canst carry any honors on thy club like Her- 
cules. What is thy chief ambition, lad ?” 

“ Well,” said I, after thinking a little, and 
meaning to make the most of it, for so the 
Queen’s eyes conveyed to me, “ my mother 
always used to think that having been school- 
ed at Tiverton, with thirty marks a year to 
pay, I was worthy of a coat of arms. And 
that is what she longs for.” 

“A good lad ! A very good lad,” said the 
King, and he looked at the Queen as if almost 
in joke ; “ but what is thy condition in life?” 

“ I am a freeholder,” I answered, iu my 
confusion, “ ever since the time of King Al- 
fred. A Ridd was with him in the isle of 
Athelney, and we hold our farm by gift from 
him, or at least people say so. We have 
had three very good harvests running, and 
might support a coat of arms; but for my- 
self I want it not.” 

“ Thou shalt have a coat, my lad,” said 
the King, smiling at his own humor; “but 
it must be a large one to fit thee. And more 
than that shalt thou have, John Ridd, being 
of such loyal breed, and having done such 
service.” 

And while I wondered what he meant, he 
called to some of the people in waiting at the 
farther end of the room, and they brought 
him a little sword, such as Annie would 
skewer a turkey with. Then he signified 
to me to kneel, which I did (after dusting 
the board, for the sake of my best breeches), 
and then he gave me a little tap very nicely 
upon my shoulder before I knew what he 
was up to, and said, “Arise, Sir John Ridd!” 

This astonished and amazed me to such 
extent of loss of mind, that when I got up I 
looked about, and thought what, the Snowes 
would think of it. And I said to the King, 
without forms of speech, 

“ Sir, I am very much obliged. But what 
be I to do with it ?” 


253 


LORNA DOONE. 


CHAPTER LXIX. 

NOT TO BE PUT UP WTITL 

The coat of arms devised for me by the 
Royal heralds was of great size and rich 
colors, and full of bright imaginings. They 
did me the honor to consult me first, and to 
take no notice of my advice. For I begged 
that there might be a good-sized cow on it, 
so as to stamp our pats of butter before they 
went to market ; also a horse on the other 
side, and a flock snowed up at the bottom. 
But the gentlemen would not hear of this ; 
and to find something more appropriate, 
they inquired strictly into the annals of our 
family. I told them, of course, all about 
King Alfred ; upon which they settled that 
one-quarter should be three cakes on a bar, 
with a lion regardant, done upon a field of 
gold. Also I told them that very likely 
there had been a Ridd in the battle fought, 
not very far from Plover’s Barrows, by the 
Earl of Devon against the Danes, when Hub- 
ba, their chief, was killed, and the sacred 
standard taken. As some of the Danes are 
said to be buried even upon land of ours, 
and we call their graves (if such they be) 
even to this day “barrows,” the heralds 
quite agreed with me that a Ridd might 
have been there, or thereabouts ; and if he 
was there, he was almost certain to have 
done his best, being in sight of hearth and 
home ; and it was plain that he must have 
had good legs to be at the same time both 
there and in Athelney, and good legs are an 
argument for good arms; and supposing a 
man of this sort to have done his utmost (as 
the manner of the Ridds is), it was next to 
certain that he himself must have captured 
the standard. Moreover, the name of our 
farm was pure proof ; a plover being a wild 
bird, just the same as a raven is. Upon this 
chain of reasoning, and without any weak 
misgiving, they charged my growing es- 
cutcheon with a black raven on a ground 
of red. And the next thing which I men- 
tioned possessing absolute certainty, to wit, 
that a pig with two heads had been born 
upon our farm not more than two hundred 
years agone (although he died within a 
week), my third quarter was made at once, 
by a two-headed boar with noble tusks, sa- 
ble upon silver. All this was very fierce 
and fine ; and so I pressed for a peaceful 
corner in the lower dexter, and obtained a 
wheat-sheaf set upright, gold upon a field 
of green. 

Here I was inclined to pause, and admire 
the effect ; for even De Whichehalse could 
not show a bearing so magnificent. But 
the heralds said that it looked a mere sign- 
board without a good motto under it ; and 
the motto must have my name in it. They 
offered me first, “ Ridd non ridendus but 
I said, “ For God’s sake, gentlemen, let me 
forget my Latin.” Then they proposed, 


“ Ridd readeth riddles but I begged them, 
not to set down such a lie ; for no Ridd ever 
had made, or made out, such a thing as a 
riddle since Exmoor itself began. Thirdly, 
they gave me, “ Ridd, never be ridden ;” and 
fearing to make any further objections, I let 
them inscribe it in bronze upon blue. The 
heralds thought that the King would pay 
for this noble achievement ; but His Majes- 
ty, although graciously pleased with their 
ingenuity, declined in the most decided man- 
ner to pay a farthing toward it ; and as I 
had now no money left, the heralds became 
as blue as azure, and as red as gules, until 
Hdr Majesty the Queen came forward very 
kindly, and said that if His Majesty gave 
me a coat of arms, I was not to pay for it ; 
therefore she herself did so quite handsome- 
ly, and felt good-will toward me in conse- 
quence. 

Now being in a hurry — so far, at least, as 
it is in my nature to hurry — to get to the 
end of this narrative, is it likely that I 
would have dwelt so long upon my coat of 
arms but for some good reason ? And this 
good reason is that Lorn a took the greatest 
pride in it, and thought (or at any rate 
said) that it quite threw into the shade and 
eclipsed all her own ancient glories. And 
half in fun, and half in earnest, she called 
me “ Sir John ” so continually, that at last I 
was almost angry with her, until her eyes 
were bedewed with tears; and then I was 
angry with myself. 

Beginning to be short of money, and grow- 
ing anxious about the farm, longing also 
to show myself and my noble escutcheon to 
mother, I took advantage of Lady Lorna’s 
interest with the Queen to obtain my ac- 
quittance and full discharge from even nom- 
inal custody. It had been intended to keep 
me in waiting until the return of Lord Jef- 
freys from that awful circuit of shambles, 
through which his name is still used by 
mothers to frighten their children into bed. 
And right glad was I — for even London 
shrank with horror at the news — to escape 
a man so blood-thirsty, savage, and, even to 
his friends (among whom I was reckoned), 
malignant. 

Earl Brandir was greatly pleased with 
me, not only for having saved his life, but 
for saving that which he valued more, the 
wealth laid by for Lord Alan. And he in- 
troduced me to many great people, who quite 
kindly encouraged me, and promised to help 
me in every way, when they heard how the 
King had spoken. As for the furrier, he 
could never have enough of my society; and 
this worthy man, praying my commendation, 
demanded of me one thing only — to speak of 
him as I found him. As I had found him 
many a Sunday furbishing up old furs for 
new, with a glaze to conceal the moths’ rav- 
ages, I begged him to reconsider the point, 
and not to demand such accuracy. He said,,. 


LORNA DOONE. 


259 


“Well, well; all trades had tricks, especial- 
ly the trick of business ; and I must take 
him — if I were his true friend — according 
to his own description.” This I was glad 
enough to do ; because it saved so much 
trouble, and I had no money to spend with 
him. But still he requested the use of my 
name ; and I begged him to do the best 
with it, as I never had kept a banker. And 
the “John Ridd cuffs,” and the “Sir John 
mantles,” and the “holly-staff capes” he put 
into his window, as the winter was coming 
on, ay, and sold (for every body was burning 
with gossip about me), must have made this 
good man’s fortune ; since the excess of price 
over value is the true test of success in life. 

To come away from all this stuff, which 
grieves a man in London — when the brisk 
air of the autumn cleared its way to Lud- 
gate Hill, and clever ’prentices ran out, and 
sniffed at it, and fed upon it (having little 
else to eat) ; and when the horses from the 
country were a goodly sight to see, with the 
rasp of winter bristles rising through and 
among the soft summer-coat ; and when the 
new straw began to come in, golden with 
the harvest-gloss, and smelling most divine- 
ly at those strange livery-stables where the 
nags are put quite tail to tail; and when 
all the London folk themselves were ask- 
ing about white frost (from recollections 
of childhood); then, I say, such a yearning 
seized me for moory crag, and for dewy 
blade, and even the grunting of our sheep 
(when the sun goes down), that nothing but 
the new wisps of Samson could have held 
me in London town. 

Lorna was moved with equal longing to- 
ward the country and country ways; and 
Bhe spoke quite as much of the glistening 
dew as she did of the smell of our oven. 
And here let me mention — although the two 
are quite distinct and different — that both 
the dew and the bread of Exmoor may be 
sought, whether high or low, but never found 
elsewhere. The dew is so crisp, and pure, 
and pearly, and in such abundance ; and the 
bread is so sweet, so kind, and homely, you 
can eat a loaf, and then another. 

Now while I was walking daily in and 
out great crowds of men (few of whom had 
any freedom from the cares of money, and 
many of whom were even morbid with a 
worse pest, called “politics”), I could not be 
quit of thinking how we jostle one another. 
God has made the earth quite large, with 
a spread of land enough for all to live on, 
without fighting; also a mighty spread of 
water, laying hands on sand and cliff with a 
solemn voice in storm-time, and in the gentle 
weather moving men to thoughts of equity. 
This, as well, is full of food; being two- 
thirds of the world, and reserve for devour- 
ing knowledge, by the time the sons of men 
have fed away the dry land. Yet before the 
land itself has acknowledged touch of man 


upon one in a hundred acres, and before 
one mile in ten thousand of the exhaustless 
ocean has ever felt the plunge of hook, or 
combing of the haul-nets, lo, we crawl, in 
flocks together, upon the hot ground that 
stings us, even as the black grubs crowd 
upon the harried nettle ! Surely we are too 
much given to follow the tracks of each 
other. 

However, for a moralist I never set up, 
and never shall, while common sense abides 
with me. Such a man must be very wretch- 
ed, in this pure dearth of morality ; like a 
fisherman where no fish be ; and most of us 
have enough to do to attend to our own 
morals. Enough that I resolved to go ; and 
as Lorna could not come with me, it was 
even worse than stopping. Nearly every 
body vowed that I was a great fool indeed 
to neglect so rudely — which was the proper 
word, they said — the pushing of my for- 
tunes. But I answered that to push was 
rude; and I left it to people who had no 
room, and thought that my fortune must 
be heavy, if it would not move without 
pushing. 

Lorna cried when I came away (which 
gave me great satisfaction), and she sent a 
whole trunkful of things for mother and 
Annie, and even Lizzie. And she seemed to 
think, though she said it not, that I made 
my own occasion for going, and might have 
staid on till the winter. Whereas I knew 
well that my mother would think (and ev- 
ery one on the farm the same) that hero I 
had been in London, lagging, and taking my 
pleasure, and looking at shops, upon pretense 
of King’s business, and leaving the harvest 
to reap itself, not to mention the spending 
of money; while all the time there was 
nothing whatever, except my own love of 
adventure and sport, to keep me from com- 
ing home again. But I knew that my coat 
of arms and title would turn every bit of 
this grumbling into fine admiration. 

And so it fell out, to a greater extent than 
even I desired ; for all the parishes round 
about united in a sumptuous dinner at the 
Mother Melldrum inn — for now that good 
lady was dead, and her name and face set on 
a sign-post — to which I was invited, so that 
it was as good as a summons. And if my 
health was no better next day, it was not 
from want of good wishes, any more than 
from stint of the liquor. 

It is needless to say that the real gentry 
for a long time treated my new honors with 
contempt and ridicule; but gradually as 
they found that I was not such a fool as to 
claim any equality with them, but went 
about my farm -work, and threw another 
man at wrestling, and touched my hat to 
the magistrates just the same as ever, some 
gentlemen of the highest blood — of which 
we think a great deal more than of gold 
around our neighborhood — actually express- 


260 


LORNA DOONE. 


ed a desire to make my acquaintance. And 
when, in a manner quite straightforward, 
and wholly free from bitterness, I thanked 
them for this (which appeared to me the 
highest honor yet offered me), but declined 
to go into their company because it would 
make me uncomfortable, and themselves as 
well in a different way, they did what near- 
ly all Englishmen do, when a thing is right 
and sensible. They shook hands w'ith me, 
and said that they could not deny hut that 
there was reason in my view of the matter. 
And although they themselves must he the 
losers — which was a handsome thing to say 
— they would wait until I was a little older, 
and more aware of my own value. 

Now this reminds me how it is that an 
English gentleman is so far in front of for- 
eign noblemen and princes. I have seen at 
times a little, both of one and of the other ; 
and making more than due allowance for 
the difficulties of language, and the differ- 
ence of training, upon the whole the balance 
is in favor of our people. And this because 
we have two weights, solid, and (even in 
scale of manners) outweighing all light com- 
plaisance; to wit, the inborn love of justice, 
and the power of abiding. 

Yet some people may be surprised that 
men with any love of justice, whether inborn 
or otherwise, could continue to abide the 
arrogance, and rapacity, and tyranny of the 
Doones. 

For now as the winter passed, the Doones 
were not keeping themselves at home, as 
in honor they were bound to do. Twenty 
sheep a week, and one fat ox, and two stout 
red deer (for wholesome change of diet), as 
well as three-score bushels of flour, and two 
hogsheads and a half of cider, and a hun- 
dred-weight of candles, not to mention other 
things of almost every variety, which they 
got by insisting upon it — surely these might 
have sufficed to keep the people in their 
place, with no outburst of wantonness. Nev- 
ertheless, it was not so ; they had made com- 
plaint about something — too much ewe-mut- 
ton, I think it was — and in spite of all the 
pledges given, they had ridden forth, and 
carried away two maidens of our neighbor- 
hood. 

Now these two maidens were known, be- 
cause they had served the beer at an ale- 
house; and many men who had looked at 
them over a pint or quart vessel (especial- 
ly as they were comely girls) thought it was 
very hard for them to go in that way, and 
perhaps themselves unwilling. And their 
mother (although she had taken some mon- 
ey, which the Doones were always full of) 
declared that it was a robbery ; and though 
it increased for a while the custom, that 
must soon fall off again. And who would 
have her two girls now, clever as they were 
and good ? 

Before we had finished meditating upon 


this loose outrage — for so I, at least, would 
call it, though people accustomed to the law 
may take a different view of it — we had 
news of a thing far worse, which turned the 
hearts of our women sick. This I will tell 
in most careful language, so as to give of- 
fense to none, if skill of words may help it.* 

Mistress Margery Badcock, a healthy and 
upright young woman, with a good rich col- 
or, and one of the finest hen-roosts anywhere 
around our neighborhood, was nursing her 
child about six of the clock, and looking out 
for her husband. Now this child was too old 
to be nursed, as every body told her ; for he 
could run, say two yards alone, and perhaps 
four or five, by holding to handles. And he 
had a way of looking round, and spreading 
his legs, and laughing, with his brave little 
body well fetched up, after a desperate jour- 
ney to the end of the table, which his moth- 
er said nothing could equal. Nevertheless, 
he would, come to be nursed as regular as a 
clock almost ; and inasmuch as he was the 
first, both father and mother made much of 
him ; for God only knew whether they could 
ever compass such another one. 

Christopher Badcock was a tenant farmer 
in the parish of Martinhoe, renting some fif- 
ty acres of land, with a right of common at- 
tached to them ; and at this particular time, 
being now the month of February, and fine 
open weather, he was hard at work plowing 
and preparing for spring corn. Therefore 
his wife was not surprised, although the 
dusk was falling, that Farmer Christopher 
should be at work in “ blind-man’s-holiday,” 
as we call it. 

But she was surprised, nay, astonished, 
when by the light of the kitchen fire (bright- 
ened up for her husband) she saw six or sev- 
en great armed men burst into the room 
upon her; and she screamed so that the 
maid in the back kitchen heard her, but was 
afraid to come to help. Two of the strong- 
est and fiercest men at once seized poor 
young Margery ; and though she fought for 
her child and home, she was but an infant 
herself in their hands. In spite of tears, and 
shrieks, and struggles, they tore the babe 
from the mother’s arms, and cast it on the 
lime-ash floor; then they bore her away to 
their horses (for by this time she was sense- 
less), and telling the others to sack the 
house, rode off with their prize to the valley. 
And from the description of one of those 
two who carried off the poor woman, I kuew 
beyond all doubt that it was Carver Doone 
himself. 

The other Doones being left behind, and 
grieved, perhaps, in some respects, set to 
with a will to scour the house, and to bring 
away all that was good to eat. And being 

* The following story is strictly true ; and true it is 
that the country-people rose to a man at this dastard 
cruelty, and did what the Government failed to do.— 
Ed. L. D. 


LORNA DOONE. 


261 


a little vexed herein (for the Badcocks were 
not a rich couple), and finding no more than 
bacon, and eggs, and cheese, and little items, 
and nothing to drink hut water ; in a word, 
their taste being offended, they came hack 
to the kitchen, and stamped, and there was 
the baby lying. 

By evil luck, this child began to squeal 
about his mother, having been petted hith- 
erto, and wont to get all he wanted by rais- 
ing his voice but a little. Now the mark 
of the floor was upon his head ; as the maid 
(who had stolen to look at him when the 
rough men were swearing up stairs) gave 
evidence. And she put a dish-cloth under 
his head and kissed him, and ran away 
again. Her name was Honor Jose, and she 
meant what was right by her master and 
mistress, but could not help being frighten- 
ed. And many women have blamed her, 
and as I think unduly, for her mode of for- 
saking baby so. If it had been her own 
baby, instinct rather than reason might 
have had the day with her; but the child 
being born of her mistress, she wished him 
good luck, and left him, as the fierce men 
came down stairs. And being alarmed by 
their power of language (because they had 
found no silver), she crept away in a breath- 
less hurry, and afraid how her breath might 
come back to her. For oftentime she had 
hiccoughs. 

While this good maid was in the oven, by 
side of back-kitchen fire-place, with a fagot 
of wood drawn over her, and lying so that 
her own heart beat worse than if she were 
baking, the men (as I said before) came 
down stairs, and stamped around the baby. 

“Rowland, is the bacon good?” one of 
them asked, with an oath or two ; “ it is too 
bad of Carver to go off with the only prize, 
and leave us in a starving cottage, and not 
enough to eat for two of us. Fetch down 
the staves of the rack, my boy. What was 
farmer to have for supper ?” 

“ Naught but an onion or two, and a loaf, 
and a rasher of rusty bacon. These poor 
devils live so badly, they are not worth rob- 
bing.” 

“No game! Then let us have a game of 
loriot with the baby ! It will be the best 
thing that could befall a lusty infant here- 
tic. Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross. 
By-by, baby Bunting ; toss him up, and let 
me see if my wrist be steady.” 

The cruelty gf this man is a thing it makes 
me sick to speak of ; enough that when the 
poor baby fell (without attempt at cry or 
scream, thinking it part of his usual play, 
when they tossed him up, to come down 
again), the maid in the oven of the back 
kitchen, not being any door between, heard 
them say as follows : 

“If any man asketh who killed thee, 

Say ’twas the Doones of Bagworthy.”* 

* Always pronounced “Badgery.” 


Now I think that when we heard this story, 
and poor Kit Badcock came all around in a 
sort of half-crazy manner, not looking up at 
any one, but dropping his eyes, and asking 
whether we thought he had been well treat- 
ed, and seeming void of regard for life, if 
this were all the style of it ; then, having 
known him a lusty man, and a fine singer 
in an ale-house, and much inclined to lay 
down the law, and show a high hand about 
women, I really think that it moved us more 
than if he had gone about ranting, and rav- 
ing, and vowing revenge upon every one. 


CHAPTER LXX. 

COMPELLED TO VOLUNTEER. 

There had been some trouble in our own 
home during the previous autumn, while 
yet I was in London. For certain noted fu- 
gitives from the army of King Monmouth 
(which he himself had deserted in a low 
and currish manner), having failed to ob- 
tain free shipment from the coast near Wa- 
tersmouth, had returned into the wilds of 
Exmoor, trusting to lurk, and be comforted, 
^mong the common people. Neither were 
they disappointed for a certain length of 
time, nor, in the end, was their disappoint- 
ment caused by fault on our part. Major 
Wade was one of them ; an active and well- 
meaning man, but prone to fail in courage 
upon lasting trial, although in a moment 
ready. Squire John Whichehalse (not the 
baron) and Parson Powell* caught him (two 
or three months before my return) in Farley 
farm-house, near Brendon. He had been up 
at our house several times, and Lizzie thought 
a great deal of him. And well I know that 
if at that time I had been in the neighbor- 
hood, he should not have been taken so easily. 

John Birch, the farmer who had sheltered 
him, was so fearful of punishment that he 
hanged himself in a few days’ time, and even 
before he was apprehended. But nothing 
was done to Grace Howe, of Bridgeball, who 
had been Wade’s greatest comforter, neither 
was any thing done to us; although Eliza 
added greatly to mother’s alarm and dan- 
ger by falling upon Rector Powell, and most 
soundly rating him for his meanness, and 
his cruelty, and cowardice, as she called it, 
in setting men with fire-arms upon a poor 
helpless fugitive, and robbing all our neigh- 
borhood of its fame for hospitality. How- 
ever, by means of Sergeant Bloxham, and 
his good report of us, as well as by virtue of 
Wade’s confession (which proved of use to 
the Government), my mother escaped all 
penalties. 

* Not our Parson Bowden, nor any more a friend 
of his. Our Parson Bowden never had naught what- 
ever to do with it, and never smoked a pipe with 
Parson Powell after it. — J. R. 


LORNA DOONE. 


262 

It is likely enough that good folk will 
think it hard upon our neighborhood to be 
threatened, and sometimes heavily punished, 
for kindness and humanity, and yet to be 
left to help ourselves against tyranny and 
base rapine. And now, at last, our gorge 
was risen, and our hearts in tumult. We 
had borne our troubles long, as a wise and 
wholesome chastisement, quite content to 
have some few things of our own unmeddled 
with. But what could a man dare to call 
his own, or what right could he have to 
wish for it, while he left his wife and chil- 
dren at the pleasure of any stranger ? 

The people came flocking all around me 
at the blacksmith’s forge and the Brendou 
ale - house, and I could scarce come out of 
church but they got me among the tomb- 
stones. They all agreed that I was bound 
to take command and management. I bade 
them go to the magistrates, but they said 
they had been too often. Then I told them 
that I had no wits for ordering of an arma- 
ment, although I could find fault enough 
with the one which had not succeeded. But 
they would hearken to none of this. All 
they said was, “ Try to lead us, and we will 
try not to run away.” 

This seemed to me to be common sense, 
and good stuff, instead of mere bragging*: 
moreover. I myself -was moved by the bitter 
wrongs of Margery, having known her at 
the Sunday-school ere ever I went to Tiv- 
erton, and having, in those days, serious 
thoughts of making her my sweetheart, al- 
though she was three years my elder. But 
now I felt this difficulty — the Doones had 
behaved very well to our farm, and to moth- 
er, and all of us, while I was away in Lon- 
don. Therefore would it not be shabby and 
mean for me to attack them now ? 

Yet being pressed still harder and harder, 
as day by day the excitement grew (with 
more and more talking over it), and no one 
else coming forward to undertake the busi- 
ness, I agreed at last to this; that if the 
Doones, upon fair challenge, would not en- 
deavor to make amends by giving up Mis- 
tress Margery, as well as the man who had 
slain the babe, then I would lead the expe- 
dition, and do my best to subdue them. All 
our men were content with this, being thor- 
oughly well assured, from experience, that 
the haughty robbers would only shoot auy 
man who durst approach them with such 
proposal. 

And then arose a difficult question — who 
was to take the risk of making overtures so 
unpleasant ? I waited for the rest to offer ; 
and as none was ready, the burden fell on 
me, and seemed to be of my own inviting. 
Hence I undertook the task, sooner than 
reason about it; for to give the cause of 
every thing is worse than to go through 
with it. 

It may have been three of the afternoon, 


when, leaving my witnesses behind (for they 
preferred the background), I appeared with 
our Lizzie’s white handkerchief upon a kid- 
ney-bean stick, at the entrance to the rob- 
bers’ dwelling. Scarce knowing what might 
come of it, I had taken the wise precaution 
of fastening a Bible over my heart, and an- 
other across my spinal column, in case of 
having to run away, with rude men shoot- 
ing after me. For my mother said that the 
Word of God would stop a two-inch bullet 
with three ounces of powder behind it. 
Now I took no weapons, save those of the 
Spirit, for fear of being misunderstood. 
Bufr I could not bring myself to think that 
any of honorable birth would take advan- 
tage of an unarmed man coming in guise of 
peace to them. 

And this conclusion of mine held good, at 
least for a certain length of time ; inasmuch 
as two decent Doones appeared, and hear- 
ing of my purpose, offered, without violence, 
to go and fetch the Captain, if I would stop 
where I was, and not begin to spy about any 
thing. To this, of course, I agreed at once ; 
for I wanted no more spyiug, because I had 
thorough knowledge of. all ins and outs al- 
ready. Therefore, I stood waiting steadily, 
with one hand in my pocket feeling a sam- 
ple of corn for market, and the other against 
the rock, while I wondered to see it so 
brown already. 

Those men came back in a little while, 
with a sharp short message that Captain 
Carver would come out and speak to me by- 
aud-by when his pipe was finished. Ac- 
cordingly, I waited long, and we talked 
about the signs of bloom for the coming ap- 
ple season, and the rain that had fallen last 
Wednesday night, and the principal dearth 
of Devonshire, that it will not grow many 
cowslips — which we quite agreed to be the 
prettiest of spring flowers ; and all the time 
I was wondering how many black and dead- 
ly deeds these two innocent youths had com- 
mitted even since last Christmas. 

At length a heavy and haughty step 
sounded along the stone roof of the way ; 
and then the great Carver Doone drew up, 
and looked at me rather scornfully. Not 
with any spoken scorn, nor flash of strong 
contumely, but with that air of thinking lit- 
tle, and praying not to be troubled, which 
always vexes a man who feels that he ought 
not to be despised so, and yet knows not 
how to help it. , 

“ What is it you want, young man ?” he 
asked, as if he had never seen me before. 

In spite of that strong loathing which I 
always felt at sight of him, I commanded 
my temper moderately, and told him that I 
was come for his good, and that of his wor- 
shipful company, far more than for my own. 
That a general feeling of indignation had 
arisen among us at the recent behavior of 
certain young men, for which he might not 


LORNA DOONE. 


263 


be answerable, and for wliicb we would not 
condemn him without knowing the rights 
of the question. But I begged him clear- 
ly to understand that a vile and inhuman 
wrong had been done, and such as we could 
not put up with ; but that if he would make 
what ameuds he could by restoring the poor 
woman, and giving up that odious brute 
who had slain the harmless infant, we would 
take no further motion, and tliiugs should 
go on as usual. As I put this in the fewest 
w r ords that would meet my purpose, I was 
grieved to see a disdainful smile spread on 
his sallow countenance. Then he made me 
a bow of mock courtesy, and replied as fol- 
lows : 

“ Sir John, your new honors have turned 
your poor head, as might have been expect- 
ed. We are not in the habit of deserting 
any thing that belongs to us, far less our 
sacred relatives. The insolence of your de- 
mand well-nigh outdoes the ingratitude. If 
there be a mau upon Exmoor who has gross- 
ly ill-used us, kidnapped our young women, 
and slain half a dozen of our young men, you 
are that outrageous rogue, Sir John. And 
after all this, how have we behaved? We 
have laid no hand upon your farm, we have 
not carried off your women, we have even 
allowed you to take our Queen, by creeping 
and crawling treachery; and we have given 
you leave of absence to help your cousin the 
highwayman, and to come home with a ti- 
tle. And now, how do you requite us ? By 
inflaming the boorish indiguation at a lit- 
tle frolic of our young men, and by coming 
with insolent demands, to yield to which 
would ruin us. Ah, you ungrateful viper !” 

As he turned away in sorrow from me, 
shaking his head at my badness, I became 
so overcome (never having been quite as- 
sured, even by people’s praises, about my 
own goodness), moreover the light which 
he threw upon things differed so greatly 
from my own, that, in a word — not to be 
too long — I feared that I was a villain. 
And with many bitter pangs — for I have 
bad things to repent of — I began at my 
leisure to ask myself whether or not this 
bill of indictment against John Ridd was 
true. Some of it I knew to be (however 
much I condemned myself) altogether out 
of reason; for instance, about my going away 
with Lorn a very quietly over the snow, and 
to save my love from being starved away 
from me. In this there was no creeping 
neither crawling treachery, for all was done 
with sliding; and yet I was so out of train- 
ing for being charged by other people beyond 
mine own conscience, that Carver Doone’s 
harsh words came on me like prickly spin- 
ach sown with raking. Therefore I replied, 
and said, 

“ It is true that I owe you gratitude, sir, 
for a certain time of forbearance ; and it is 
to prove my gratitude that I am come here 


now. I do not think that my evil deeds can 
be set against your own, although I can not 
speak flowingly upon my good deeds as you 
can. I took your Queen because you starved 
her, having stolen her long before, and killed 
her mother and brother. This is not for me 
to dwell upon now, any more than I would 
say much about your murdering of my fa- 
ther. But how the balance hangs between 
us, God knows better than thou or I, thou 
low miscreant, Carver Doone.” 

I had worked myself up, as I always do, 
in the manner of heavy men, growing hot 
like an ill-washered wheel revolving, though 
I start with a cool axle ; and I felt ashamed 
of myself for heat, and ready to ask pardon. 
But Carver Dooue regarded me with a no- 
ble and fearless grandeur. 

“ I have given thee thy choice, John Ridd,” 
he said, in a lofty manner, which made me 
drop away under him; “I always wish to 
do my best with the worst people who come 
near me. And of all I have ever met with, 
thou art the very worst, Sir John, and the 
most dishonest.” 

Now after all my laboring to pay every 
man to a penny, and to allow .the wpmen 
over, when among the couch-grass (which 
is a sad thing for their gowns), to be charged 
like this, I say, so amazed me that I stood, 
with my legs quite open, and ready for an 
earthquake. And the scornful way in which 
he said “ Sir John ” went to my very heart, 
reminding me of my littleness. But seeing 
no use in bandying words, nay, rather the 
chance of mischief, I did my best to look 
calmly at him, and to say with a quiet voice, 
“ Farewell, Carver Doone, this time; our day 
of reckoning is nigh.” 

“ Thou fool, it is come,” he cried, leaping 
aside into the niche of rock by the door- 
way: “Fire!” 

Save for the quickness of spring, and 
readiness, learned in many a wrestling bout, 
that knavish trick must have ended me ; 
but scarce was the word “ fire !” out of his 
mouth ere I was out of fire by a single 
bound behind the rocky pillar of the open- 
ing. In this jump I was so brisk, at im- 
pulse of the love of life (for I saw the muz- 
zles set upon me from the darkness of the 
cavern), that the men who had trained their 
guns upon me with good-will and daintiness 
could not check their fingers crooked upon 
the heavy triggers ; and the volley sang with 
a roar behind it down the avenue of crags. 

With one thing and another, and most of 
all the treachery of this dastard scheme, I 
was so amazed that I turned and ran, at the 
very top of my speed, away from these vile 
fellows; and luckily for me they had not 
another charge to send after me. And thus 
by good fortune I escaped, but with a bitter 
heart and mind at their treacherous usage. 

Without any further hesitation, I agreed 
to take command of the honest men who. 


264 


LORNA DOONE. 


were burning to punish, ay, and destroy, 
those outlaws, as now beyond all bearing. 
One condition, however, I made, namely, 
that the Counselor should be spared, if pos- 
sible ; not because he was less a villain than 
any of the others, but that he seemed less 
violent, and, above all, had been good to 
Annie. And I found hard work to make 
them listen to my wish upon this point; 
for of all the Doones, Sir Counselor had 
made himself most hated, by his love of law 
and reason. 

We arranged that all our men should come 
and fall into order, with pike and musket, 
over against our dunghill, and we settled 
early in the day that their wives might come 
and look at them. For most of these men 
had good wives ; quite different from sweet- 
hearts, such as the militia had ; women, in- 
deed, who could hold to a man, and see to 
him, and bury him — if his luck were evil — 
and perhaps have no one afterward. And 
all these women pressed their rights upon 
their precious husbands, and brought so 
many children with them, and made such 
a fuss, and hugging, and racing after little 
legs, ,that our farm-yard might be taken for 
an outdoor school for babies rather than a 
review-ground. 

I myself was to and fro among the chil- 
dren continually ; for if I love any thing in 
the world, foremost I love children. They 
warm, and yet they cool our hearts, as we 
think of what we were, and what in young 
clothes we hoped to be, and how many things 
have come across. And to see our motives 
moving in the little things that know not 
what their aim or object is, must almost, or 
ought at least, to lead us home and soften 
us. For either end of life is home ; both 
source and issue being God. 

Nevertheless, I must confess that the chil- 
dren were a plague sometimes. They never 
could have enough of me — being a hundred 
to one, you might say — but I had more than 
enough of them, and yet was not contented. 
For ihey had so many ways of talking, and 
of tugging at my hair, and of sitting upon 
my tieck (not even two with their legs alike), 
and they forced me to jump so vehemently, 
seeming to court the peril of my coming 
down neck-nnd-crop with them, and urging 
me still to go faster, however fast I might 
go with them, I assure you that they were 
sometimes so hard and tyrannical over me, 
that I might almost as well have been among 
the very Doones themselves. 

Nevertheless, the way in which the chil- 
dren made me useful proved also of some use 
to me ; for their mothers were so pleased by 
the exertions of the “great Gee-gee” — as all 
•the small ones entitled me — that they gave 
me unlimited power and authority over their 
husbands : moreover, they did their utmost 
among their relatives round about, to fetch 
}, recruits for our little band. And by such 


means, several of the yeomanry from Barn- 
staple and from Tiverton were added to our 
number; and inasmuch as these were armed 
with heavy swords and short carbines, their 
appearance was truly formidable. 

Tom Faggus also joined us heartily, being 
now quite healed of his w'ound, except at 
times when the wind was easterly. He was 
made second in command to me ; and I would 
gladly have had him first, as more fertile in 
expedients ; but he declined such rank, on 
the plea that I knew most of the seat of war ; 
besides, that I might be held in some meas- 
ure to draw authority from the King. Also 
Uncle Ben came over to help us with his ad- 
vice and presence, as well as with a band of 
stout warehousemen, whom he brought from 
Dulverton. For he had never forgiven the 
old outrage put upon him; and though if 
had been to his interest to keep quiet during 
the last attack under Commander Stickles— 
for the sake of his secret gold mine — yet 
now he was in a position to give full vent ta 
his feelings. For he and his partners, when 
fully assured of the value of their diggings, 
had obtained from the Crown a license to 
adventure in search of minerals by payment 
of a heavy fine and a yearly royalty. There- 
fore they had now no longer any cause for 
secrecy, neither for dread of the outlaws; 
having so added to their force as to be a 
match for them. And although Uncle Ben 
was not the man to keep his miners idle an 
hour more than might be helped, he prom- 
ised that when we had fixed the moment for 
an assault on the valley, a score of them 
should come to aid us, headed by Simon Car- 
fax, and armed with the guns which they al- 
ways kept for the protection of their gold. 

Now whether it were Uncle Ben, or wheth- 
er it were Tom Faggus, or even my own self 
— for all three of us claimed the sole honor — 
is more than I think fair to settle without 
allowing them a voice. But at any rate a 
clever thing was devised among us; and 
perhaps it would be the fairest thing to say 
that this bright stratagem (worthy of the 
great Duke himself) was contributed, little 
by little, among the entire three of us, all 
having pipes, and schnapps -and -water, in 
the chimney-corner. However, the world, 
which always judges according to reputa- 
tion, vowed that so fine a stroke of war could 
only come from a highwayman ; and so Tom 
Faggus got all the honor, at less, perhaps, 
than a third of the cost. 

Not to attempt to rob him of it — for rob- 
bers, more than any other, contend for rights 
of property — let me try to describe this grand 
artifice. It was known that the Doones 
were fond of money, as well as strong drink, 
and other things ; and more especially fond 
of gold, when they could get it pure and 
fine. Therefore it was agreed that in this 
way we should tempt them, for we knew 
that they looked with ridicule upon our 


LORN A DOONE. 


265 


rustic preparations : after repulsing King’s 
troopers, and the militia of two counties, 
was it likely that they should yield their 
fortress to a set of plow-boys ? We, for our 
part, felt, of course, the power of this rea- 
soning, and that where regular troops had 
failed, half-armed countrymen must fail, ex- 
cept by superior judgment and harmony of 
action. Though perhaps the militia would 
have sufficed, if they had only fought against 
the foe, instead of against each other. From 
these things we took warning : having fail- 
ed through overconfidence, was it not possi- 
ble now to make the enemy fail through the 
self-same cause ? 

Hence, what we devised was this : to de- 
lude from home a part of the robbers, and 
fall hy surprise on the other part. We 
caused it to be spread abroad that a large 
heap of gold was now collected at the mine 
of the Wizard’s Slough. And when this ru- 
mor must have reached them, through wom- 
en who came to and fro, as some entirely 
faithful to them were allowed to do, we sent 
Captain Simon Carfax, the father of little 
Gwenny, to demand an interview with the 
Counselor by night, and as it were secretly. 
Then he was to set forth a list of imaginary 
grievances against the owners of the mine, 
and to offer, partly through resentment, part- 
ly through the hope of gain, to betray into 
their hands upon the Friday night by far 
the greatest weight of gold as yet sent up 
for refining. He was to have one-quarter 
part, and they to take the residue. But 
inasmuch as the convoy across the moors 
under his command would he strong, and 
strongly armed, the Doones must be sure to 
send not less than a score of men, if possible. 
He himself, at a place agreed upon, and fit 
for an ambuscade, would call a halt, and 
contrive in the darkness to pour a little wa- 
ter into the priming of his company’s guns. 

It cost us some trouble and a great deal 
of money to bring the sturdy Cornishman 
into this deceitful part; and perhaps he 
never would have consented but for his ob- 
ligatiqp to me, and the wrongs (as he said) 
of his daughter. However, as he was the 
man for the task, both from his coolness and 
courage, and being known to have charge 
of the mine, I pressed him, until he under- 
took to tell all the lies we required. And 
right well he did it too, having once made 
up his mind to it, and perceiving that his 
own interests called for the total destruction 
of the robbers. 

o 

CHAPTER LXXI. 

A LONG ACCOUNT SETTLED. 

Having resolved on a night assault (as our 
undisciplined men, three-fourths of whom 
had never been shot at, could not fairly he 
expected to march up to visible musket- 


mouths), we cared not much about drilling 
our forces, only to teach them to hold a mus- 
ket, so far as we could supply that weapon 
to those with the cleverest eyes, and to give 
them familiarity with the noise it made in 
exploding. And we fixed upon Friday night 
for our venture, because the moon would be 
at the full, and our powder was coming from 
Dulverton on the Friday afternoon. 

Uncle Reuben did not mean to expose 
himself to shooting, his time of life for risk 
of life being now well over, and the residue 
too valuable. But his counsels, and his in- 
fluence, and above all his warehousemen, 
well practiced in beating carpets, were of 
true service to us. His miners also did 
great wonders, having a grudge against the 
Doones; as indeed who had not for thirty 
miles round their valley ? 

It was settled that the yeomen, having 
good horses under them, should give account 
(with the miners’ help) of as many Doones 
as might be dispatched to plunder the pre- 
tended gold. And as soon as we knew that 
this party of robbers, be it more or less, was 
out of hearing from the valley, we were to 
fall to, ostensibly at the Doone-gate (which 
was impregnable now), but in reality upon 
their rear, by means of my old water-slide. 
For I had chosen twenty young fellows, 
partly miners, and partly warehousemen, 
and sheep farmers, and some of other voca- 
tions, but all to be relied upon for spirit and 
power of climbing. And with proper tools 
to aid us, and myself to lead the way, I felt 
no doubt whatever but that we could all 
attain the crest, where first I had met with 
Lorn a. 

Upon the whole, I rejoiced that Lorna 
was not present now. It must have been 
irksome to her feelings to have all her kin- 
dred and old associates (much as she kept 
aloof from them) put to death without cer- 
emony, or else putting all of us to death. 
For all of us were resolved this time to have 
no more shilly-shallying, but to go through 
with a nasty business in the style of hon- 
est Englishmen, when the question comes to 
“Your life, or mine.” 

There was hardly a man among us who 
had not suffered bitterly from the miscreants 
now before us. One had lost his wife per- 
haps, another had lost a daughter — accord- 
ing to their ages, another had lost his favor- 
ite cow; in a word, there was scarcely any 
one who had not to complain of a hay-rick ; 
and what surprised me then, not now, was 
that the men least injured made the great- 
est push concerning it. But bo the wrong 
too great to speak of, or too small to swear 
about, from poor Kit Badcock to rich Mas- 
ter Huckaback, there was not one but went 
heart and soul for stamping out these fire- 
brands. 

The moon was lifting well above the 
shoulder of the uplands when wo, the chosen 


LORNA DOONE. 


266 

band, set forth, having the short cut along 
the valleys to foot of the Bagworthy water, 
and therefore having allowed the rest an 
hour to fetch round the moors and hills; 
we were not to begin our climb until we 
heard a musket fired from the heights on the 
left-hand side, where John Fry himself was 
stationed, upon his own and his wife’s re- 
quest, so as to keep out of action. And that 
was the place where I had been used to sit, 
and to watch for Lorna. And John Fry 
was to fire his gun, wfitli a ball of wool in- 
side it, so soon as he heard the hurly-burly 
at the Doone-gate beginning ; which we, by 
reason of water-fall, could not hear down in 
the meadows there. 

We waited a very long time, with the 
moon marching np heaven steadfastly, and 
the w r hite fog trembling in chords and col- 
umns, like a silver harp of the meadows. 
And then the moon drew up th'? fogs, and 
scarfed herself in white with them ; and so 
being proud, gleamed upon the water like a 
bride at her looking-glass ; and yet there was 
no sound of either John Fry or his blunder- 
buss. 

I began to think that ths worthy John, 
being out of all danger, and having brought 
a counterpane (according to his wife’s di- 
rections, because one of the children had a 
' cold), must veritably have gone to sleep, 
leaving other people to kill, or be killed, as 
might be the will of God, so that he were 
comfortable. But herein I did wrong to 
John, and am ready to acknowledge it ; for 
suddenly the most awful noise that any 
thing short of thunder could make came 
down among the rocks, and went and hung 
upon the corners. 

“ The signal, my lads !” I cried, leaping up 
and rubbing my eyes; for even now, while 
condemning John unjustly, I was giving him 
right to be hard upon me. “Now hold on 
by the rope, and lay your quarter - staffs 
across, my lads, and keep your guns point- 
ing to heaven, lest haply we shoot one an- 
other.” 

“ Us sha’n’t never shutt one anoother, wi’ 
•our goons at that mark, I reckon,” said an 
oldish chap, but as tough as leather, and es- 
teemed a wit for his dryness. 

“ You come next to me, old Ike ; you be 
enough to dry up the waters : now, remem- 
ber, all lean well forward. If any man 
throws his weight back, down he goes, and 
perhaps he may never get up again; and 
most likely he will shoot himself.” 

I was still more afraid of their shooting 
me ; for my chief alarm in this steep ascent 
was neither of the water nor of the rocks, 
but of the loaded guns w r e bore. If any man 
slipped, off might go his gun ; and however 
good his meaning, I being first was most 
likely to take far more than I fain would 
apprehend. 

For this cause I had debated with Uncle 


Ben and with Cousin Tom as to the expe- 
diency of our climbing with guns unloaded. 
But they, not being in the way themselves, 
assured me that there was nothing to fear, 
except through uncommon clumsiness; and 
that as for charging our guns at the top, 
even veteran troops could scarce be trusted 
to perform it properly in the hurry, and the 
darkness, and the noise of fighting before 
them. 

However, thank God, though a gun went 
off, no one was any the worse for it, neither 
did the Doones notice it, in the thick of the 
firing in front of them. For the orders to 
those of the sham attack, conducted by Tom 
Faggus, were to make the greatest possible 
noise, without exposure of themselves, until 
we in the rear had fallen to, which John Fry 
was again to give signal of. 

Therefore we of the chosen band stole up 
the meadow quietly, keeping in the blots of 
shade, and hollow of the water-course. And 
the earliest notice the Counselor had, or any 
one else, of our presence, was the blazing of 
the log-wood house -where lived that villain 
Carver. It was my especial privilege to set 
this house on fire ; upon -which I had insist- 
ed, exclusively, and conclusively. No other 
hand but mine should lay a brand, or strike 
steel on flint for it ; I had made all prepa- 
rations carefully for a goodly blaze. And I 
must confess that I rubbed my hands with 
a strong delight and comfort when I saw the 
home of that man, who had fired so many 
houses, having its turn of smoke, and blaze, 
and of crackling fury. 

We took good care, however, to burn no 
innocent women or children in that most 
righteous destruction. For we brought 
them all out beforehand; some were glad, 
and some were sorry, according to their dis- 
positions. For Carver had ten or a dozen 
wives ; and perhaps that had something to 
do with his taking the loss of Lorna so 
easily. One child I noticed, as I saved him ; 
a fair and handsome little fellow, whom (if 
Carver Doone could love any thing on earth 
beside his wretched self) he did love. The 
boy climbed on my back and rode*; and 
much as I hated his father, it was not in my 
heart to say or do a thing to vex him. 

Leaving these poor injured peojAe to be- 
hold their burning home, we drew aside, by 
my directions, into the covert beneath the 
cliff. But not before we had laid our brands 
to three other houses, after calling the wom- 
en forth, and bidding them go for their hus- 
bands to come and fight a hundred of us. 
In the smoke, and rush, and fire, they be- 
lieved that we were a hundred ; and away 
they ran, in consternation, to the battle at 
the Doone-gate. 

“ All Doone-town is on fire, on fire !” we 
heard them shrieking as they went: “a 
hundred soldiers are burning it, with a 
dreadful great man at the head of them !” 


I 


LORNA 

Presently, just as I expected, back came 
the warriors of the Doones, leaving but two 
or three at the gate, and burning with wrath 
to crush under foot the presumptuous clowns 
in their valley. Just then the waxing fire 
leaped above the red crest of the cliffs, and 
danced on the pillars of the forest, and lap- 
ped like a tide on the stones of the slope. 
All the valley flowed with light, and the 
limpid waters reddened, and the fair young 
women shone, and the naked children glis- 
tened. 

But the finest sight of all was to see those 
haughty men striding down the causeway 
darkly, reckless of their end, but resolute to 
have two lives for every one. A finer dozen 
of young men could not have been found in 
the world perhaps, nor a braver, nor a viler 
one. 

Seeing how few there were of them, I was 
very loath to fire, although I covered the 
leader, who appeared to be dashing Charlie ; 
for they were at easy distance now, brightly 
shown by the fire-light, yet ignorant where 
to look for us. I thought that we might 
take them prisoners — though what good 
that could be God knows, as they must 
have been hanged thereafter — anyhow I 
was loath to shoot, or to give the word to 
my followers. 

But my followers waited for no word ; 
they saw a fair shot at the men they abhor- 
red, the men who had robbed them of home 
or of love; and the chance was too much 
for their charity. At a signal from old Ikey, 
who leveled his own gun first, a dozen mus- 
kets were discharged, and half of the Doones 
dropped lifeless, like so many logs of fire- 
wood, or chopping-blocks rolled over. 

Although I had seen a great battle be- 
fore, and a hundred times the carnage, this 
appeared to me to be horrible ; and I was 
at first inclined to fall upon our men for be- 
having so. But one instant showed me that 
they were right : for while the valley was 
filled with howling, and with shrieks of 
women, and the beams of the blazing houses 
fell and hissed in the bubbling river, all the 
rest of the Doones leaped at us like so many 
demons. They fired wildly, not seeing us 
well among the hazel-bushes; and then they 
clubbed their muskets, or drew their swords, 
as might be, and furiously drove at us. 

For a moment, although we were twice 
their number, we fell back before their val- 
orous fame, and the power of their onset. 
For my part, admiring their courage great- 
ly, and counting it slur upon manliness that 
two should be down upon one so, I with- 
held my hand a while, for I cared to meet 
none but Carver; and he was not among 
them. The whirl and hurry of this fight, 
and the hard blows raining down — for now 
all guns were empty — took away my power 
of seeing, or reasoning upon any thing. Yet 
one thing I saw which dwelt long with me ; 


DOONE. 267 

and that was Christopher Badcock spending 
his life to get Charley’s. 

How he had found out, none may tell, 
both being dead so long ago ; but, at any 
rate, he had found out that Charlie was the 
man who had robbed him of his wife and 
honor. It was Carver Doone who took her 
away, but Charles worth Doone was beside 
him ; and, according to cast of dice, she fell 
to Charley’s share. All this Kit Badcock 
(who was mad, according to our measures) 
had discovered and treasured up ; and now 
was his revenge-time. 

He had come into the conflict without a 
weapon of any kind, only begging me to lee 
him be in the very thick of it. For him, he 
said, life was no matter, after the loss of his 
wife and child; but death was matter to 
him, and he meant to make the most of it. 
Such a face I never saw, and never hope to 
see again, as when poor Kit Badcock spied 
Charley coming toward us. 

We had thought this man a patient fool, 
a philosopher of a little sort, or one who 
could feel nothing. And his quiet manner 
of going about, and the gentleness of his an- 
swers (when some brutes asked him where 
his wife was, and whether his baby had 
been well trussed), these had misled us to 
think that the man would turn the mild 
cheek to every thing. But I, in the loneli- 
ness of our barn, had listened, and had wept 
with him. 

Therefore was I not surprised, so much 
as all the rest of us, when, in the foremost 
of red light, Kit went up to Charlesworth 
Doone as if to some inheritance, and took 
his seisin of right upon him, being himself 
a powerful man, and begged a word aside 
with him. What they said aside, I know 
not : all I know is that, without weapon, 
each man killed the other. And Margery 
Badcock came, and wept, and hung upon 
her poor husband, and died that summer of 
heart-disease. 

Now for these and other things (whereof 
I could tell a thousand) was the reckoning 
come that night; and not a line we missed 
of it, soon as our bad blood was up. I like 
not to tell of slaughter, though it might be 
of wolves and tigers ; and that was a night 
of fire and slaughter, and of very long har- 
bored revenge. Enough that ere the day- 
light broke upon that wan March morning, 
the only Doones still left alive were the 
Counselor and Carver. And of all the dwell- 
ings of the Doones (inhabited with luxury, and 
luscious taste, and licentiousness) not even 
one was left, but all made potash in the river. 

This may seem a violent aud unholy re- 
venge upon them. And I (who led the 
heart of it) have in these my latter years 
doubted how I shall be judged, not of men 
— for God only knows the errors of man’s 
judgments — but by that great God himself 
the front of whose forehead is mercy. 


268 


LORNA DOONE. 


CHAPTER LXXII. 

THE COUNSELOR AND THE CARVER. 

From that great confusion — for nothing 
can he broken up, whether lawful or un- 
lawful, without a vast amount of dust, and 
many people grumbling, and mourning for 
the good old times, when all the world was 
happiness and every man a gentleman, and 
the sun himself far brighter than since the 
brassy idol upon which he shone was broken 
— from all this loss of ancient landmarks (as 
unrobbed men began to call our clearance 
of those murderers) we returned on the fol- 
lowing day, almost as full of anxiety as we 
were of triumph. In the first place, what 
could we possibly do with all these women 
and children, thrown on our hands, as one 
might say, with none to protect and care 
for them? Again, how should we answer 
to the justices of the peace, or perhaps even 
to Lord Jeffreys, for having, without even a 
warrant, taken the law into our own hands, 
and abated our nuisance so forcibly ? And 
then, what was to be done with the spoil, 
which was of great value, though the dia- 
mond necklace came not to public light? 
For we saw a mighty host of claimants al- 
ready leaping up for booty. Every man 
who had ever been robbed expected usury 
on his loss : the lords of the manors de- 
manded the whole; and so did the King’s 
Commissioner of Revenue at Porlock ; and 
so did the men who had fought our battle ; 
while even the parsons, both Bowden and 
Powell, and another who had no parish in 
it, threatened us with the just wrath of the 
Church, unless each had tithes of the whole 
of it. 

Now this was not as it ought to be ; and 
it seemed as if, by burning the nest of rob- 
bers, we had but hatched their eggs ; until 
being made sole guardian of the captured 
treasure (by reason of my known honesty) I 
hit upon a plan, which gave very little satis- 
faction, yet carried this advantage, that the 
grumblers argued against one another, and 
for the most part came to blows ; which re- 
newed their good-will to me, as being abused 
by the adversary. 

And my plan was no more than this — not 
to pay a farthing to lord of manor, parson, 
or even Kiug’s Commissioner, but after mak- 
ing good some of the recent and proven loss- 
es — where the men could not afford to lose — 
to pay the residue (which might be worth 
some fifty thousand pounds) into the Excheq- 
uer at Westminster, and then let all the claim- 
ants file what bills they pleased in Chancery. 

Now this was a very noble device, for the 
mere name of Chancery, and the high repute 
of the fees therein, and low repute of the law- 
yers, and the comfortable knowledge that the 
wool-sack itself is the golden fleece, absorb- 
ing gold forever, if the standard be but pure; 
consideration of these things staved off at 


once the lords of the manors, and all the lit- 
tle farmers, and even those whom most I fear- 
ed ; videlicet, the parsons. And the King’s 
Commissioner was compelled to profess him- 
self contented, although of all he was most 
aggrieved, for his pickings would have been 
goodly. 

Moreover, by this plan I made — although 
I never thought of that — a mighty friend 
worth all the enemies whom the loss of mon- 
ey moved. The first man now in the king- 
dom (by virtue, perhaps, of energy rather 
than of excellence) was the great Lord Jef- 
freys, appointed the head of the Equity, as 
well as the law of the realm, for his kindness 
in hanging five hundred people, without the 
mere grief of trial. Nine out of ten of these 
people were innocent, it was true ; but that 
proved the merit of the Lord Chief-justice so 
much the greater for hanging them, as show- 
ing what might be expected of him when he 
truly got hold of a guilty man. Now the 
King had seen the force of this argument; 
and not being without gratitude for a high- 
seasoned dish of cruelty, had promoted the 
only man in England combining the gifts 
both of butcher and cook. 

Nevertheless, I do beg you all to believe 
of me — and I think that, after following me 
so long, you must believe it — that I did not 
even kuow at the time of Lord Jeffrey’s high 
promotion. Not that my knowledge of this 
would have led me to act otherwise in the 
matter, for my object was to pay into an of- 
fice, and not to any official ; neither, if I had 
known the fact, could I have seen its bear- 
ing upon the receipt of my money. For the 
King’s Exchequer is, meseemeth, of the Com- 
mon Law ; while Chancery is of Equity, and 
well named for its many chances. But the 
true result of the thing was this: Lord Jef- 
freys beiug now head of the law, and almost 
head of the kingdom, got possession of that 
money, and was kindly pleased with it. 

And this met our second difficulty ; for the 
law having won and laughed over the spoil, 
must have injured its own title by impugn- 
ing our legality. 

Next, with regard to the women and chil- 
dren, we were long in a state of perplexity. 
We did our very best at the farm, and so did 
many others, to provide for them until they 
should manage about their own subsistence. 
And after a while this trouble went, as near- 
ly all troubles go witli time. Some of the 
women were taken back by their parents, or 
their husbands, or it may be their sweet- 
hearts; and those who failed of this went 
forth, some upon their own account to the 
New World plantations, where the fairer sex 
is valuable, and some to English cities, and 
the plainer ones to field-work. And most of 
the children went with their mothers or were 
bound apprentices ; only Carver Doone’s 
handsome child had lost his mother, and 
staid with me. 


LORNA DOONE. 


269 


This boy went about with me everywhere. 
He had taken as much of liking to me — first 
shown in his eyes by the fire-light — as his 
father had of hatred; and I, perceiving his 
noble courage, scorn of lies, and high spirit, 
became almost as fond of Ensie as he was of 
me. He told us that his name was “Ensie” 
— meant for “ Eusor,” I suppose, from his fa- 
ther’s grandfather, the old Sir Ensor Doone. 
And this boy appeared to be Carver’s heir, 
having been born in wedlock, contrary to the 
general manner and custom of the Doones. 

However, although I loved the poor child, 
I could not help feeling very uneasy about 
the escape of his father, the savage and bru- 
tal Carver. This man was left to roam the 
country, homeless, foodless, and desperate, 
with his giant strength, and great skill in 
arms, and the whole world to be revenged 
upon. For his escape, the miners, as I shall 
show, were answerable ; but of the Counsel- 
or’s safe departure the burden lay on myself 
alone. And inasmuch as there are people 
who consider themselves ill-used unless one 
tells them every thing, straitened though I 
am for space, I will glance at this transac- 
tion. 

After the desperate charge of young Doones 
had been met by us and broken, and just as 
poor Kit Badcock died in the arms of the 
dead Charley, I happened to descry a patch 
of white on the grass of the meadow like 
the head of a sheep after washing-day. Ob- 
serving with some curiosity how carefully 
this white thing moved along the bars of 
darkness betwixt the panels of fire-light, I 
ran up to intercept it before it reached the 
little postern which we used to call Gwen- 
ny’s door. Perceiving me, the white thing 
stopped, and was for making back again, 
but I ran up at full speed ; and lo, it was 
the flowing silvery hair of that sage the 
Counselor, who was scuttling away upon all- 
fours, but now rose and confronted me. 

“John,” he said, “Sir John, you will not 
play falsely with your ancient friend among 
these violent fellows. I look to you to pro- 
tect me, Johu.” 

“ Honored sir, you are right,” I replied ; 
“but surely that posture was unworthy of 
yourself, and your many resources. It is my 
intention to let you go free.” 

“I knew it. I could have sworn to it. 
You are a noble fellow, John. I said so 
from the very first ; you are a noble fellow, 
and an ornament to any rank.” 

“ But upon two conditions,” I added, gen- 
tly taking him by the arm ; for instead of 
displaying any desire for commune with my 
nobility, he was edging away toward the 
postern : “ the first is that you tell me truly 
(for now it can matter to none of you) who 
it was that slew my father.” 

“I will tell you truly and frankly, John, 
however painful to me to confess it. It was 
my son Carver.” 


“ I thought as much, or I felt as much, all 
along,” I answered ; “ but the fault was none 
of yours, sir; for you were not even pres- 
ent.” 

“ If I had been there, it would not have 
happened. I am always opposed to violence. 
Therefore, let me haste away; this scene is 
against my nature.” 

“ You shall go directly, Sir Counselor, af- 
ter meeting my other condition ; which is, 
that you place in my hands Lady Lorna’s 
diamond necklace.” 

“Ah! how often I have wished,” said the 
old man, with a heavy sigh, “ that it might 
yet be in my power to ease my mind in that 
respect, and to do a thoroughly good deed 
by lawful restitution.” 

“ Then try to have it in your power, sir. 
Surely, with my encouragement, you might 
summon resolution.” 

“Alas, John, the resolution has been ready 
long ago. But the thing is not in my pos- 
session. Carver, my son, who slew your fa- 
ther, upon him you will find the necklace. 
What are jewels to me, young man, at my 
time of life ? Baubles and trash — I detest 
them, from the sins they have led me to an- 
swer for. When you come to my age, good 
Sir John, you will scorn all jewels, and care 
only for a pure and bright conscience. Ah! 
ah! Let me go. I have made my peace 
with God.” 

He looked so hoary, and so silvery, and 
serene in the moonlight, that verily I must 
have believed him, if he had not drawn in 
his breast. But I happened to have noticed 
that when an honest man gives vent to 
noble and great sentiments, he spreads his 
breast, and throws it out, as if his heart 
were swelling; whereas I had seen this old 
gentleman draw in his breast more than 
once, as if it happened to contain better 
goods than sentiment. 

“ Will you applaud me, kind sir,” I said, 
keeping him very tight all the while, “ if I 
place it in your power to ratify your peace 
with God? The pledge is upon your heart, 
no doubt ; for there it lies at this moment.” 

With these words, and some apology for 
having recourse to strong measures, I thrust 
my hand inside his waistcoat and drew forth 
Lorna’s necklace, purely sparkling in the 
moonlight like the dancing of new stars. 
The old man made a stab at me with a 
knife which I had not espied ; but the vi- 
cious onset failed, and then he knelt, and 
clasped his hands. 

“ Oh, for God’s sake, John, my son, rob mu 
not in that manner. They belong to me, 
and I love them so ; I would give almost 
my life for them. There is one jewel there 
I can look at for hours, and see all the lights 
of heaven in it, which I never shall see else- 
where. All my wretched, wicked life — oh, 
John, I am a sad hypocrite — but give me 
back my jewels. Or else kill me here. I 


270 


LORNA DOONE. 


am a babe in your hands ; but I must have 
back my jewels.” 

His beautiful white hair fell away from 
his noble forehead, like a silver wreath of 
glory, and his powerful face for once was 
moved with real emotion. I was so amazed 
and overcome by the grand contradictions 
of nature, that, verily, I was on the point of 
giving him back the necklace. But honesty, 
which is said to be the first instinct of all 
Ridds (though I myself never found it so), 
happened here to occur to me ; and so I 
said, without more haste than might be ex- 
pected, 

“ Sir Counselor, I can not give you what 
does not belong to me. But if you will show 
me that particular diamond which is heaven 
to you, I will take upon myself the risk and 
the folly of cutting it out for you. And with 
that you must go contented ; and I beseech 
you not to starve with that jewel upon your 
lips.” 

Seeing no hope of better terms, he showed 
me his pet love of a jewel ; and I thought of 
what Lorna was to me, as I cut it out (with 
the hinge of my knife severing the snakes 
of gold) and placed it in his careful hand. 
Another moment, and he was gone, and away 
through Gwenny’s postern ; and God knows 
what became of him. 

How as to Carver, the thing was this : so 
far as I could ascertain from the valiant 
miners, no two of whom told the same sto- 
ry, any more than one of them told it twice. 
The band of Doones which sallied forth for 
the robbery of the pretended convoy was 
met by Simon Carfax, according to arrange- 
ment, at the ruined house called the “War- 
ren,” in that part of Bagworthy Forest where 
the river Exe (as yet a very small stream) 
runs through it. The Warren, as all our 
people know, had belonged to a fine old gen- 
tleman, whom every one called “ The Squire,” 
who had retreated from active life to pass 
the rest of his days in fishing, and shooting, 
and helping his neighbors. For he was a 
man of some substance ; and no poor man 
ever left the Warren without a bag of good 
victuals, and a few shillings put in his pock- 
et. However, this poor Squire never made 
a greater mistake than in hoping to end his 
life peacefully upon the banks of a trout- 
stream, and in the green forest of Bagworthy. 
For as he came home from the brook at dusk, 
with his fly-rod over his shoulder, the Doones 
fell upon him and murdered him, and then 
sacked his house and burned it. 

Now this had made honest people timid 
about going past the “Warren” at night; 
for, of course, it was said that the old Squire 
“ walked,” upon certain nights of the moon, 
in and out the trunks of trees on the green 
path from the river. On his shoulder he 
bore a fishing-rod, and his book of trout- 
flies in one hand, and on his back a wicker 
creel; and now and then he would burst 


out laughing to think of his coming so near 
the Doones. 

And now that one turns to consider it, 
this seems a strangely righteous thing, that 
the scene of one of the greatest crimes even 
by Doones committed should, after twenty 
years, become the scene of vengeance falling 
(like hail from heaven) upon them. For al- 
though the “Warren” lies well away to the 
westward of the mine, and the gold, under 
escort to Bristowe or London, would have 
gone in the other direction, Captain Carfax, 
finding this place best suited for working 
of his design, had persuaded the Doones that, 
for reasons of Government, the ore must go 
first to Barnstaple for inspection, or some- 
thing of that sort. And as every one knows 
that our Government sends all things west- 
ward when eastward bound, this had won 
the more faith for Simon, as being according 
to nature. 

Now Simon, having met these flowers of 
the flock of villainy where the rising moon- 
light flowed through the weir - work of the 
wood, begged them to dismount, and led 
them with an air of mystery into the Squire’s 
ruined hall, black with fire and green with 
weeds. 

“Captain, I have found a thing,” he said 
to Carver Doone himself, “ which may help 
to pass the hour ere the lump of gold comes 
by. The smugglers are a noble race, but a 
miner’s eyes are a match for them. There 
lies a puncheon of rare spirit, with the 
Dutchman’s brand upon it, hidden behind 
the broken hearth. Set a man to watch 
outside, and let us see what this be like.” 

With one accord they agreed to this, and 
Carver pledged Master Carfax, and all the 
Doones grew merry. But Simon being 
bound, as he said, to see to their strict so- 
briety, drew a bucket of water from the 
well into which they had thrown the dead 
owner, and begged them to mingle it with 
their drink; which some of them did, and 
some refused. 

But the water from that well was poured, 
while they were carousing, into the priming- 
pan of every gun of theirs, even as Simon 
had promised to do with the guns of the 
men they were come to kill. Then just as 
the giant Carver arose, with a glass of pure 
hollands in his hand, and by the light of the 
torch they had struck proposed the good 
health of the Squire’s ghost, in the broken 
door-way stood a press of men, with point- 
ed muskets, covering every drunken Doone. 
How it fared upon that I know not, having 
none to tell me; for each man wrought, 
neither thought of telling, nor whether he 
might bo alive to tell. The Doones rushed 
to their guns at once, and pointed them, and 
pulled at them ; but the Squire’s well had 
drowned their fire: and then they knew 
that they were betrayed, but resolved to 
fight like men for it. Upon fighting I can 


LORNA DOONE. 


271 


never dwell ; it breeds such savage delight 
in me, of which I would fain have less. 
Enough that all the Doones fought bravely, 
and like men (though bad ones) died in the 
hall of the man they had murdered. And 
with them died poor young De Whichehalse, 
who, in spite of all his good father’s prayers, 
had cast in his lot with the robbers. Car- 
ver Doone alone escaped. Partly through 
his fearful strength, and his yet more fear- 
ful face ; but mainly, perhaps, through his 
perfect coolness, and his mode of taking 
things. 

I am happy to say that no more than 
eight of the gallant miners were killed in 
that combat, or died of their wounds after- 
ward ; and adding to these the eight we had 
lost in our assault on the valley (and two 
of them excellent warehousemen), it cost no 
more than sixteen lives to be rid of near- 
ly forty Doones, each of whom would most 
likely have killed three men in the course 
of a year or two. Therefore, as I said at 
the time, a great work was done very rea- 
sonably ; here were nigh upon forty Doones 
destroyed (in the valley, and up at the 
“Warren”), despite their extraordinary 
strength and high skill in gunnery ; where- 
as of us ignorant rustics there were only 
sixteen to be counted dead — though others 
might be lamed, or so — and of those six- 
teen only two had left wives, and their 
wives did not happen to care for them. 

Yet, for Lorna’s sake, I was vexed at the 
bold escape of Carver. Not that I sought 
for Carver’s life, any more than I did for the 
Counselor’s : but that for us it was no light 
thing to have a man of such power, and 
resource, and desperation left at large, and 
furious, like a famished wolf, round the 
sheepfold. Yet greatly as I blamed the yeo- 
men, who were posted on their horses just 
out of shot from the Doone-gate, for the very 
purpose of intercepting those who escaped 
the miners, I could not get them to admit 
that any blame attached to them. 

But lo, he had dashed through the whole 
of them, with his horse at full gallop, and 
was nearly out of shot before they began to 
think of shooting him. Then it appears 
from what a boy said — for boys manage to 
be everywhere — that Captain Carver rode 
through the Doone-gate, and so to the head 
of the valley. There, of course, he beheld 
all the houses, and his own among the num- 
ber, flaming with a handsome blaze, and 
throwing a fine light around, such as he 
often had reveled in, when of other people’s 
property. But he swore the deadliest of all 
oaths; and seeing himself to be vanquish- 
ed (so far as the luck of the moment went), 
spurred his great black horse away, and 
passed into the darkness. 


CHAPTER LXXIII. 

HOW TO GET OUT OF CHANCERY. 

Things at this time so befell me that I 
can not tell one half, but am like a boy who 
has left his lesson (to the master’s very foot- 
fall) unready, except with false excuses. 
And as this makes no good work, so I la- 
ment upon my lingering in the times when 
I might have got through a good page, but 
went astray after trifles. However, every 
man must do according to his intellect ; and 
looking at the easy manner of my constitu- 
tion, I think that most men will regard me 
with pity and good-will for trying, more 
than with contempt and wrath for having 
tried unworthily. Even as in the wrestling 
ring, whatever man did his very best, and 
made an honest conflict, I alwaj^s laid him 
down with softness, easing off his dusty fall. 

But the thing which next betided me was 
not a fall of any sort, but rather a most glo- 
rious rise to the summit of all fortune. For 
in good truth it was no less than the return 
of Lorna — my Lorua, my own darling; in 
wonderful health and spirits, and as glad as 
a bird to get back again. It would have 
done any one good for a twelvemonth to 
behold her face and doings, and her beam- 
ing eyes and smile (not to mention blushes 
also at my salutation), when this Queen of 
every heart ran about our rooms again. She 
did love this, and she must see that; and 
where was her old friend the cat ? All the 
house was full of brightness as if the sun 
had come over the hill, and Lorna were his 
mirror. 

My mother sat in an ancient chair, and 
wiped her cheeks and looked at her ; and 
even Lizzie’s eyes must dance to the fresh- 
ness and joy of her beauty. As for me, you 
might call me mad; for I ran out and flung 
my best hat on the barn, and kissed mother 
Fry till she made at me with the sugar-nip- 
pers. 

What a quantity of things Lorna had to 
tell us ! And yet how often we stopped her 
mouth — at least mother, I mean, and Liz- 
zie — and she quite as often would stop her 
own, running up in her joy to some one of 
us! And then there arose the eating bus- 
iness — which people now call “ refresh- 
ment,” in these dandified days of our lan- 
guage — for how was it possible that our 
Lorna could have come all that way, and 
to her own Exmoor, without being terribly 
hungry ? 

“ Oh, I do love it all so much,” said Lorna, 
now for the fiftieth time, and not meaning 
only the victuals: “the scent of the gorse 
on the moors drove me wild, and the prim- 
roses under the hedges. I am sure I was 
meant for a farmer’s — I mean for a farm- 
house life, dear Lizzie” — for Lizzie was 
looking saucily — -“just as you were meant 
for a soldier’s bride, and for writing dis- 


m 


LORNA DOONE. 


patches of victory. And now, since you 
will not ask me, dear mother, in the excel- 
lence of your manners, and even John has 
not the impudence, in spite of all his coat 
of arms — I must tell you a thing, which I 
vowed to keep until to-morrow morning, 
but my resolution fails me. I am my own 
mistress — what think you of that, mother ? 
I am my own mistress !” 

“ Then you shall not be so long,” cried I ; 
for mother seemed not to understand her, 
and sought about for her glasses : “ darling, 
you shall be mistress of me ; and I will be 
your master.” 

“A frank announcement of your intent, 
and beyond doubt a true one ; but surely 
unusual at this stage, and a little prema- 
ture, John. However, what must be, must 
be.” And with tears springing out of smiles, 
she fell on my breast and cried a bit. 

When I came to smoke a pipe over it (af- 
ter the rest were gone to bed), I could hard- 
ly believe in my good luck. For here was 
I, without any merit, except of bodily pow- 
er, and the absence of any falsehood (which 
surely is no commendation), so placed that 
the noblest man in England might envy me, 
and be vexed with me. For the noblest lady 
in all the land, and the purest, and the sweet- 
est, hung upon my heart, as if there was none 
to equal it. 

I dwelt upon this matter long, and very 
severely, while I smoked a new tobacco, 
brought by my own Lorna for me, and next 
to herself most delicious ; and as the smoke 
curled away, I thought, “ Surely this is too 
fine to last, for a man who never deserved 
it.” 

Seeing no way out of this, I resolved to 
place my faith in God, and so went to bed 
and dreamed of it. And having no pres- 
ence of mind to pray for any thing, under 
the circumstances, I thought it best to fall 
asleep, and trust myself to the future. Yet 
ere I fell asleep the roof above me swarmed 
with angels, having Lorna under it. 

In the morning Lorna was ready to tell 
her story, and we to hearken ; and she wore 
a dress of most simple stuff, and yet perfect- 
ly wonderful, by means of the shape and her 
figure. Lizzie was wild with jealousy, as 
might be expected (though never would An- 
nie have been so, but have praised it, and 
craved for the pattern) ; and mother, not 
understanding it, looked forth, to be taught 
about it. For it was strange to note that 
lately my dear mother had lost her quick- 
ness, and was never quite brisk, unless the 
question were about myself. She had seen 
a great deal of trouble ; and grief begins to 
close on people as their power of life de- 
clines. We said that she was hard of hear- 
ing ; but my opinion was, that seeing me in- 
clined for marriage made her think of my 
father, and so perhaps, a little too much, 
to dwell upon the courting of thirty years 


agone. Anyhow, she was the very best of 
mothers; and would smile and command 
herself, and be (or try to believe herself) 
as happy as could be, in the doings of the 
younger folk, and her own skill in detect- 
ing them ; yet, with the wisdom of age, re- 
nouncing any opinion upon the matter, since 
none could see the end of it. 

But Lorna, in her bright young beauty, 
and her knowledge of my heart, was not to 
be checked by any thoughts of haply com- 
ing evil. In the morning she was up, even 
sooner than I was, and through all the cor- 
ners of the hens, remembering every one of 
them. I caught her, and saluted her with 
such warmth (being now none to look at us), 
that she vowed she would never come out 
again ; and yet she came the next morning! 

These things ought not to be chronicled. 
Yet I am of such nature, that finding many 
parts of life adverse to our wishes, I must 
now and then draw pleasure from the bless- 
ed portions. And what portion can be more 
blessed than with youth, and health, and 
strength, to be loved by a virtuous maid, 
and to love her with all one’s heart? Nei- 
ther was my pride diminished, when I found 
what she had done, only from her love of 
me. 

Earl Brandir’s ancient steward, in whose 
charge she had traveled, with a proper es- 
cort, looked upon her as a lovely maniac; 
and the mixture of pity and admiration 
wherewith he regarded her was a strange 
thing to observe, especially after he had 
seen our simple house and manners. On the 
other hand, Lorna considered him a worthy 
but foolish old gentleman, to whom true 
happiness meant no more than money and 
high position. 

These two last she had been ready to 
abandon wholly, and had in part escaped 
from them, as the enemies of her happiness. 
And she took advantage of the times in a 
truly clever manner. For that happened 
to be a time — as indeed all times hitherto 
(so far as my knowledge extends) have, 
somehow or other, happened to be — when 
every body was only too glad to take money 
for doing any thing. And the greatest mon- 
ey-taker in the kingdom (next to the King 
and Queen, of course, who had due pre-emi- 
nence, and had taught the maids of honor) 
was generally acknowledged to be the Lord 
Chief-justice Jeffreys. 

Upon his return from the Bloody Assizes* 
with triumph and great glory, after hanging 
every man who was too poor to help it, he 
pleased His Gracious Majesty so purely with 
the description of their delightful agonies, 
that the King exclaimed, “ This man alone 
is worthy to be at the head of the law.” 
Accordingly in his hand was placed the great 
seal of England. 

So it came to pass that Lorna’s destiny 
hung upon Lord Jeffreys; for at this time 


LORNA DOONE. 


273 


Earl Brandir died, being taken with gout in 
the heart soon after I left London. Lorn a 
was very sorry for him ; but as he had never 
been able to hear one tone of her sweet sil- 
very voice, it is not to be supposed that she 
wept without consolation. She grieved for 
him as we ought to grieve for any good man 
going, and yet with a comforting sense of 
the benefit which the blessed exchange must 
bring to him. 

Now thfc Lady Lorna Dugal appeared to 
Lord Chancellor Jeffreys so exceeding 
wealthy a ward that the lock would pay for 
turning. Therefore he came, of his own ac- 
cord, to visit her, and to treat with her; 
having heard (for the man was as big a gos- 
sip as never cared for any body, yet loved to 
know all about every body) that this wealthy 
and beautiful maiden would not listen to any 
young lord, having pledged her faith to the 
plain John Ridd. 

Thereupon our Lorna managed so to hold 
out golden hopes to the Lord High Chan- 
cellor, that he, being not more than three 
parts drunk, saw his way to a heap of mon- 
ey. And there and then (for he was not the 
man to dally long about any thing) upon 
surety of a certain round sum — the amount 
of which I will not mention, because of his 
kindness toward me — he gave to his fair ward 
permission, under sign and seal, to marry that 
loyal knight, John Ridd, upon condition only 
that the King’s consent should be obtained. 

His Majesty, well-disposed toward me for 
my previous service, and regarding me as 
a good Catholic, being moved, moreover, by 
the Queen, who desired to please Lorna, con- 
sented, without much hesitation, upon the 
understanding that Lorna, when she became 
of full age, and the mistress of her property 
(which was still under guardianship), should 
pay a heavy fine to the Crown, and devote 
a fixed portion of her estate to the promotion 
of the holy Catholic faith, in a manner to be 
dictated by the King himself. Inasmuch, 
however, as King James was driven out of 
his kingdom before this arrangement could 
take effect, and another king succeeded, who 
desired not the promotion of the Catholic 
religion, neither hankered after subsidies 
(whether French or English), that agreement 
was pronounced invalid, improper, and con- 
temptible. However, there was no getting 
back the money once paid to Lord Chancel- 
lor Jeffreys. 

But what thought we of money at this 
present moment, or of position, or any thing 
else, except, indeed, one another? Lorna 
told me, with the sweetest smile, that if I 
were minded to take her at all, I must take 
her without any thing; inasmuch as she 
meant, upon coming of age, to make over 
the residue of her estates to the next of kin, 
as being unfit for a farmer’s wife. And I 
replied with the greatest warmth, and a 
readiness to worship her, that this was ex- 
18 


actly what I longed for, but had never dared 
to propose it. But dear mother looked most 
exceeding grave, and said that to be sure 
her opinion could not be expected to count 
for much, but she really hoped that in three 
years’ time we should both be a little wiser, 
and have more regard for our interests, and 
perhaps those of others by that time ; and 
Master Snowe having daughters ouly, and 
nobody coming to marry them, if any thing 
happened to the good old man — and who 
could tell in three years’ time what might 
happen to all or any of us? — why perhaps 
his farm would be for sale, and perhaps 
Lady Lorna’s estates iu Scotland would fetch 
enough money to buy it, and so throw the 
two farms into one, and save all the trouble 
about the brook, as my poor father had long- 
ed to do many and many a time; but not 
having a title, could not do all quite as he 
wanted. And then if we young people grew 
tired of the old mother, as seemed only too 
likely, aud was according to nature, why we 
could send her over there, and Lizzie to keep 
her company. 

When mother had finished and wiped her 
eyes, Lorna, who had been blushing rosily at 
some portions of this great speech, flung her 
fair arms around mother’s neck, and kissed 
her very heartily, and scolded her (as she 
w r ell deserved) for her want of confidence 
in us. My mother replied that if any body 
could deserve her John, it was Lorna; but 
that she could not hold with the rashness 
of giving up money so easily; while her 
next of kin would be John himself, and who 
could tell what others, by the time she was 
one-and-twenty ? 

Hereupon I felt that, after all, my mother 
had common sense on her side ; for if Master 
Snowe’s farm should be for sale, it would 
be far more to the purpose than my coat of 
arms to get it ; for there was a different pas- 
ture there, just suited for change of diet to 
our sheep as well as large cattle. And be- 
sides this, even with all Annie’s skill (and 
of course yet more now she was gone), their 
butter would always command in the mar- 
ket from one to three farthings a pound more 
than we could get for ours. And few things 
vexed us more than this. Whereas, if we 
got possession of the farm, we might, with- 
out breach of the market-laws, or any harm 
done to any one (the price being but a prej- 
udice), sell all our butter as Snowe butter, 
and do good to all our customers. 

Thinking thus, yet remembering that 
Farmer Nicholas might hold out for anoth- 
er score of years — as I heartily hoped he 
might — or that one, if not all, of his comely 
daughters might marry a good young farm- 
er (or farmers, if the case were so) — or that, 
even without that, the farm might never be 
put up for sale, I begged my Lorna to do as 
she liked, or rather to wait and think of it ; 
for as yet she could do nothing. 


274 


LORNA DOONE. 


CHAPTER LXXIV. 

DRIVEN BEYOND ENDURANCE. 

Every thing was settled smoothly, and 
without any fear or fuss, that Lorna might 
find end of troubles, and myself of eager 
waiting, with the help of Parson Bowden, 
and the good wishes of two counties. I 
could scarce believe my fortune, when I 
looked upon her beauty, gentleness, and 
sweetness, mingled with enough of humor, 
and warm woman’s feeling, never to be dull 
or tiring ; never themselves to be weary. 

For she might be called a woman now, 
although a very young one, and as full of 
playful ways, or perhaps I may say ten times 
as full, as if she had known no trouble : to 
wit, the spirit of bright childhood, having 
been so curbed and straitened ere its time 
was over, now broke forth, enriched and va- 
ried with the garb of conscious maidenhood. 
And the sense of steadfast love, and eager 
love enfolding her, colored with so many 
tinges all her looks, and words, and thoughts, 
that to me it was the noblest vision even to 
think about her. 

But this was far too bright to last, with- 
out bitter break, and the plunging of happi- 
ness in horror, and of passionate joy in ag- 
ony. My darling, in her softest moments, 
when she was alone with me, when the 
spark of defiant eyes was veiled beneath 
dark lashes, and the challenge of gay beau- 
ty passed into sweetest invitation ; at such 
times of her purest love and warmest faith 
in me, a deep abiding fear would flutter in 
her bounding heart, as of deadly fate’s ap- 
proach. She would cling to me, and nestle 
to me, being scared of eoyishness, and lay 
one arm around my neck, and ask if I could 
do without her. 

Hence, as all emotions haply, of those who 
are more to us than ourselves, find within us 
stronger echo, and more perfect answer, so I 
could not be regardless of some hidden evil, 
and my dark misgivings deepened as the time 
drew nearer. I kept a steadfast watch on 
Lorna, neglecting a field of beans entirely, 
as well as a litter of young pigs, and a cow 
somewhat given to jaundice. And I let Jem 
Slocombe go to sleep in the tallat all one af- 
ternoon, and Bill Dadds draw olf a bucket of 
cider, without so much as a “ by your leave.” 
For these men knew that my knighthood, 
and my coat of arms, and (most of all) my 
love, were greatly against good farming ; the 
sense of our country being — and perhaps it 
may be sensible — that a man who sticks up 
to be any thing must allow himself to be 
cheated. 

But I never did stick up, nor would, though 
all the parish bade me; and I whistled the 
same tunes to my horses, and held my plow- 
tree just the same as if no King nor Queen 
had ever come to spoil my tune or hand. 
For this thing nearly all the men around 


our parts upbraided me, but the women 
praised me ; and for the most part these are 
right, when themselves are not concerned. 

However humble I might be, no one 
knowing any thing of our part of the coun- 
try would for a moment doubt that now 
here was a great todo and talk of John 
Ridd and his wedding. The fierce fight 
with the Doones so lately, and my leading 
of the combat (though I fought not more 
than need be), and the vanishing of Sir 
Counselor, and' the galloping madness of 
Carver, and the religious fear of the women 
tjiat this last was gone to hell — for he him- 
self had declared that his aim, while he cut 
through the yeomanry — also their remorse 
that he should have been made to go thith- 
er, with all his children left behind — these 
things, I say (if ever I can again contrive to 
say any thing), had led to the broadest ex- 
citement about my wedding of Lorna. We 
heard that people meant to come from more 
than thirty miles around, upon excuse of 
seeing my stature and Lorna’s beauty ; but, 
in good truth, out of sheer curiosity and the 
love of meddling. 

Our clerk had given notice that not a man 
should come inside the door of his church 
without shilling-fee, and women (as sure to 
see twice as much) must every one pay two 
shillings. I thought this wrong ; and, as 
church- warden, begged that the money might 
be paid into mine own hands when taken. 
But the clerk said that was against all law ; 
and he had orders from the parson to pay it 
to him without any delay. So, as I always 
obey the parson when I care not much about 
a thing, I let them have it their own way, 
though feeling inclined to believe sometimes 
that. I ought to have some of the money. 

Dear mother arranged all the ins and outs 
of the way in which it was to be done ; and 
Annie and Lizzie, and all the Snowes, and 
even Ruth Huckaback (who was there, after 
great persuasion), made such a sweeping of 
dresses that I scarcely knew where to place 
my feet, and longed for a staff to put by their 
gowns. Then Lorna came out of a pew half- 
way, in a manner which quite astonished 
me, and took my left hand in her right, and 
I prayed God that it were done with. 

My darling looked so glorious that I was 
afraid of glancing at her, yet took in all her 
beauty. She was in a fright, no doubt, but 
nobody should see it ; whereas I said (to my- 
self, at least), “ I will go through it like a 
grave-digger.” 

Lorna’s dress was of pure white, clouded 
with faint lavender (for the sake of the old 
Earl Brandir), and as simple as need be, ex- 
cept for perfect loveliness. I was afraid to 
look at her, as I said before, except when 
each of us said u I will and then each 
dwelt upon the other. 

It is impossible for any who have not 
loved as I have to conceive my joy and prido 


LORNA DOONE. 


275 


when, after ring and all was done, and the 
parson had blessed us, Lorna turned to look 
at me with her glances of subtle fun sub- 
dued by this great act. 

Her eyes, which none on earth may ever 
equal or compare with, told me such a depth 
of comfort, yet awaiting further commune, 
that I was almost amazed, thoroughly as I 
knew them. Darling eyes, the sweetest eyes, 
the loveliest, the most loving eyes — the 
sound of a shot rang through the church, 
and those eyes were filled with death. 

Lorna fell across my knees when I was 
going to kiss her, as the bridegroom is al- 
lowed to do, and encouraged, if he needs it ; 
a flood of blood came out upon the yellow 
wood of the altar steps ; and at my feet lay 
Lorna, trying to tell me some last message 
out of her faithful eyes. I lifted her up, 
and petted her, and coaxed her, but it was 
no good ; the only sign of life remaining 
was a spirt of bright red blood. 

Some men know what things befall them 
in the supreme time of their life — far above 
the time of death — but to me comes back 
as a hazy dream, without any knowledge in 
it, what I did, or felt, or thought, with my 
wife’s arms flagging, flagging, around my 
neck, as I raised her up, and softly put them 
there. She sighed a long sigh on my breast, 
for her last farewell to life, and then she 
grew so cold, aud cold, that I asked the time 
of year. 

It was now Whit-Tuesday, and the lilacs 
all in blossom ; and why I thought of the 
time of year, with the young death in my 
arms, God or His angels may decide, having 
so strangely given us. Enough that so I 
did, and looked ; and our white lilacs were 
beautiful. Then I laid my wife iu my moth- 
er’s arms, and begging that no one would 
make a noise, went forth for my revenge. 

Of course, I knew who had done it. There 
was but one man in the world, or, at any 
rate, in our part of it, who could have done 
such a thing — such a thing. I use no harsh- 
er word about it, while I leaped upon our 
best horse, with bridle but no saddle, aud 
set the head of Kickums toward the course 
now pointed out to me. Who showed me 
the course, I can not tell. I only know that 
I took it. Aud the men fell back before me. 

Weapon of no sort had I. Unarmed, and 
wondering at my strange attire (with a brid- 
al vest wrought by our Anuie, and red with 
the blood of the bride), I went forth just to 
find out this — whether in this world there 
be or be not God of justice. 

With my vicious horse at a furious speed, 
I came upon Black Barrow Down, directed 
by some shout of men, which seemed to me 
but a whisper. And there, about a furlong 
before me, rode a man on a great black 
horse, and I knew that the mau was Carver 
Doone. 

“Your life, or mine,” I said to myself; 


u as the will of God may be. But we two 
live not upon this earth one more hour to- 
gether.” 

I knew the strength of this great man ; 
and I knew that he was armed with a gun — 
if he had time to load again, after shooting 
my Lorna — or at any rate with pistols, and 
a horseman’s sword as well. Nevertheless, 
I had no more doubt of killing the mau be- 
fore me than a cook has of spitting a head- 
less fowl. 

Sometimes seeing no ground beneath me, 
and sometimes heeding every leaf, and the 
crossing of the grass-blades, I followed over 
the long moor, reckless whether seen or not. 
But only once the other man turned round 
aud looked back again, and then I was be- 
side a rock, with a reedy swamp behind me. 

Although he was so far before me, and 
riding as hard as ride he might, I saw that 
he had something on the horse iu front of 
him ; something which needed care, and 
stopped him from looking backward. In 
the whirling of my wits, I fancied first that 
this was Lorna ; until the scene I had been 
through fell across hot brain and heart, like 
the drop at the close of a tragedy. Rush- 
ing there through crag aud quag at utmost 
speed of a maddened horse, I saw, as of an- 
other’s fate, calmly (as on canvas laid), the 
brutal deed, the piteous anguish, and the 
cold despair. 

The man turned up the gully leading from 
the moor to Cloven Rocks, through which 
John Fry had tracked Uncle Ben, as of old 
related. But as Carver entered it, he turn- 
ed round, and beheld me not a hundred yards 
behind ; aud I saw that he was bearing his 
child, little Eusie, before him. Ensie also 
descried me, and stretched his hands aud 
cried to me ; for the face of his father fright- 
ened him. 

Carver Doone, with a vile oath, thrust 
spurs into his flagging horse, and laid one 
hand on a pistol-stock, whence I knew that 
his slung carbine had received no bullet 
since the one that had pierced Lorna. And 
a cry of triumph rose from the black depths 
of my heart. What cared I for pistols ? I 
had no spurs, neither was my horse one to 
need the rowel; I rather held him in .than 
urged him, for he was fresh as ever; and I 
knew that the black steed in front, if he 
breasted the steep ascent, where the track 
divided, must be iu our reach at once. 

His rider knew this, aud, having no room 
in the rocky channel to turn and fire, drew 
rein at the crossways sharply, and plunged 
into the black ravine leading to the Wiz- 
ard’s Slough. “ Is it so ?” I said to myself, 
with brain and head cold as iron: “ though 
the foul fiend come from the slough to save 
thee, thou shaft carve it, Carver.” 

I followed my enemy carefully, steadily, 
even leisurely ; for I had him as iu a pitfall, 
whence no escape might be. He thought 


276 


LORNA DOONE. 


that I feared to approach him, for he knew 
not where lie was: and his low disdainful 
laugh came back. “ Laugh he who wins,” 
thought I. 

A gnarled and half-starved oak, as stub- 
born as my own resolve, and smitten by some 
storm of old, hung from the crag above me. 
Rising from my horse’s back, although I had 
no stirrups, I caught a limb, and tore it (like 
a mere wheat-awn) from the socket. Men 
show the rent even now with wonder; none 
with more wonder than myself. 

Carver Doone turned the corner sudden- 
ly on the black and bottomless bog ; with a 
start of fear he reined back his horse, and 
I thought he would have turned upon me. 
But instead of that, he again rode on, hoping 
to find a way round the side. 

Now there is a way between cliff and 
slough for those who know the ground 
thoroughly, or have time enough to search 
it; but for him there was no road, and he 
lost some time in seeking it. Upon this he 
made up his mind ; and wheeling, fired, and 
then rode at me. 

His bullet struck me somewhere, but I 
took no heed of that. Fearing only his es- 
cape, I laid my horse across the way, and 
with the limb of the oak struck full on 
the forehead his charging steed. Ere the 
slash of the sword came nigh me, man and 
horse rolled over, and well-nigh bore my 
own horse down with the power of their 
onset. 

Carver Doone was somewhat stunned, and 
could not arise for a moment. Meanwhile I 
leaped on the gronnd and awaited, smooth- 
ing my hair back, and baring my arms, as 
though in the ring for wrestling. Then the 
little boy ran to me, clasped my leg, and 
looked up at me; and the terror in his eyes 
made me almost fear myself. 

“ Eusie, dear,” I said quite gently, griev- 
ing that he should see his wicked father 
killed, “run up yonder round the corner, 
and try to find a pretty bunch of bluebells 
for the lady.” The child obeyed me, hang- 
ing back, and looking back, and then laugh- 
ing, while I prepared for business. There 
and then I might have killed mine enemy 
with a single blow while he lay unconscious, 
but it would have been foul play. 

With a sullen and black scowl, the Carver 
gathered his mighty limbs and arose, and 
looked round for his weapons; but I had 
put them well away. Then he came to me 
and gazed, being wont to frighten thus 
young men. 

“I would not harm you, lad,” he said, 
with a lofty style of sneering : “ I have pun- 
ished you enough, for most of your imperti- 
nence. For the rest I forgive you, because 
you have been good and gracious to my lit- 
tle son. Go and be contented.” 

For answer I smote him on the cheek, 
lightly, and not to hurt him, but to make 


his blood leap up. I would not sully my 
tongue by speaking to a man like this. 

There was a level space of sward between 
us and the slough. With the courtesy de- 
rived from London, aud the processions I 
had seen, to this place I led him. Aud that 
lie might breathe himself, and have every 
fibre cool, and every muscle ready, my hold 
upon his coat I loosed, and left him to begin 
with me whenever he thought proper. 

I think he felt that his time was come. I 
think he knew from my knitted muscles, and 
the firm arch of my breast, and the way in 
which I stood, but most of all from my stern 
blue eyes, that he had found his master. At 
any rate a paleness came, an ashy paleness 
on his cheeks, and the vast calves of his legs 
bowed in, as if he were out of training. 

Seeing this, villain as he was, I offered 
him first chance. I stretched forth my left 
hand, as I do to a weaker antagonist, and I 
let him have the hug of me. But in this I 
was too generous ; having forgotten my pis- 
tol-wound, aud the cracking of one of my 
short lower ribs. Carver Doone caught me 
round the waist with such a grip as never 
yet had been laid upon me. 

I heard my rib go ; I grasped his arm, and 
tore the muscle out of it* (as the string 
comes out of an orange) ; then I took him 
by the throat, which is not allowed in wrest- 
ling, but he had snatched at mine ; aud now 
was no time of dalliance. In vain he tug- 
ged, and strained, and writhed, dashed his 
bleeding fist into my face, and flung himself 
on me with gnashing jaws. Beneath the 
iron of my strength — for God that day was 
with me — I had him helpless in two min- 
utes, and his fiery eyes lolled out. 

“I will not harm thee any more,” I cried, 
so far as I could for panting, the work being 
very furious : “ Carver Doone, thou art beat- 
en ; own it, and thank God for it ; and go 
thy way, and repent thyself.” 

It was all too late. Even if he had yield- 
ed in his ravening frenzy — for his beard 
was like a mad dog’s jowl — even if he would 
have owned that, for the first time in his 
life, he had found his master ; it was all too 
late. 

The black bog hadjiim by the feet ; the 
sucking of the ground drew on him, like the 
thirsty lips of death. In our fury, we had 
heeded neither wet nor dry ; nor thought of 
earth beneath us. I myself might scarce- 
ly leap, with the last spring of o’erlabored 
legs, from the ingulfing grave of slime. He 
fell back, with his swarthy breast (from 
which my gripe had rent all clothing), like 
a hummock of bog-oak, standing out the 
quagmire ; and then he tossed his arms to 
heaven, and they were black to the elbow, 
and the glare of his eyes was ghastly. I 


* A far more terrible clutch than this is handed down, 
to weaker ages, of the great John Ridd.— E». L. D. 


LORNA DOONE. 


277 


could only gaze and pant ; for my strength 
was no more than an infant’s, from the fury 
and the horror. Scarcely could I turn away, 
while, joint by joint, he sank from sight. 


CHAPTER LXXV. 

LIFE AND LORNA COME AGAIN. 

When the little boy came back with the 
bluebells, which he had managed to find — 
as children always do find flowers, when 
older eyes see none — the only sign of his 
father left was a dark brown bubble upon a 
new-formed patch of blackness. But to the 
centre of its pulpy gorge the greedy slough 
was heaving, and sullenly grinding its wel- 
tering jaws among the flags and the sedges. 

With pain and ache, both of mind and 
body, and shame at my own fury, I heavily 
mounted my horse again, and looked down 
at the innocent Eusie. Would this playful, 
loving child grow up like his cruel father, 
and end a godless life of hatred with a death 
of violence? He lifted his noble forehead 
toward me, as if to answer, “Nay, I will 
not but the words he spoke were these : 

“ Don” — for he never could say “ John ” — 
“oh Don, I am so glad that nasty naughty 
man is gone away. Take me home, Don. 
Take me home.” 

It has been said of the wicked, “ Not even 
their own children love them.” And I could 
easily believe that Carver Doone’s cold- 
hearted ways had scared from him e„ven his 
favorite child. No man would I call truly 
wicked unless his heart be cold. 

It hurt me more than I can tell, even 
through all other grief, to take into my arms 
the child of the man just slain by me. The 
feeling was a foolish one, and a wrong one, 
as the thing had been — for I would fain have 
saved that man after he was conquered — 
nevertheless, my arms went coldly round 
that little fellow; neither would they have 
gone at all, if there had been any help for it. 
But I could not leave him there till some 
one else might fetch him, on account of the 
cruel slough, and the ravens which had 
come hovering over the dead horse ; neither 
could I, with my wound, tie him on my horse 
and walk. 

For now I had spent a great deal of blood, 
and was rather faint and weary. And it 
was lucky for me that Kickums had lost 
spirit like his master, and went home as 
mildly as a lamb. For when we came to- 
ward the farm, I seemed to be riding in a 
dream almost ; and the voices both of men 
and women (who had hurried forth upon my 
track), as they met me, seemed to wander 
from a distant muffling cloud. Only the 
thought of Lorna’s death, like a heavy knell, 
was tolling in the belfry of my brain. 

When we came to the stable door, I rather 


fell from my horse than got off ; and John 
Fry, with a look of wonder, took Kicknms’s 
head, and led him in. Into the old farm- 
house I tottered, like a weanling child, with 
mother, in her common clothes, helping me 
along, yet fearing, except by stealth, to look 
at me. 

“ I have killed him,” was all I said, “ even 
as he killed Lorna. Now let me see my 
wife, mother. She belongs to me none the 
less, though dead.” 

“ You can not see her now, dear John,” 
said Ruth Huckaback, coining forward ; 
since no one else had the courage. “Annie 
is with her now, John.” 

“What has that to do with it? Let me 
see my dead one, and pray to die.” 

All the women fell away and whispered, 
and looked at me with side glances, and 
some sobbing, for my face was hard as flint. 
Ruth alone stood by me, and dropped her 
eyes, and trembled. Then one little hand 
of hers stole into my great shaking palm, 
and the other was laid on my tattered coat : 
yet with her clothes she shunned my blood, 
while she whispered gently, 

“John, she is not your dead one. She 
may even be your living one yet — your wife, 
your home, and your happiness. But you 
must not see her now.” 

“ Is there any chance for her ? For me, 1 
mean ; for me, I mean ?” 

“ God in heaven knows, dear John. But 
the sight of you, and in this sad plight, 
would be certain death to her. Now come 
first, and be healed yourself.” 

I obeyed her like a child, whispering only 
as I went, for none but myself knew her 
goodness — “Almighty God will bless you, 
darling, for the good you are doing now.” 

Teufold, ay, and a thousand-fold, I prayed 
and I believed it, when I came to know the 
truth. If it had not been for this little 
maid, Lorna must have died at once, as in 
my arms she lay for dead, from the dastard 
and murderous cruelty. But the moment I 
left her Ruth came forward, and took the 
command of every one, in right of her firm- 
ness and readiness. 

She made them bear her home at once upon 
the door of the pulpit, with the cushion un- 
der the drooping head. With her own little 
hands she cut off, as tenderly as a pear is 
peeled, the bridal dress so steeped and stain- 
ed, and then with her dainty, transparent 
fingers (no larger than a pencil) she probed 
the vile wound in the side, and fetched the 
reeking bullet forth, and then with the cold- 
est water staunched the flowing of the life- 
blood. All this while my darling lay insen- 
sible, and white as death ; and all the wom- 
en around declared that she was dead, and 
needed nothing but her maiden shroud. 

But Ruth still sponged the poor side and 
forehead, and watched the long eyelashes 
flat upon the marble cheek; and laid her 


278 


LOENA DOONE. 


pure face on the faint heart, and bade them 
fetch her Spanish wine. Then she parted 
the pearly teeth (feebly clenched on the hov- 
ering breath), and poured in wine from a 
christening- spoon, and raised the graceful 
neck and breast, and stroked the delicate 
throat, and waited and then poured in a lit- 
tle more. 

Annie all the while looked on with horror 
and amazement, counting herself no second- 
rate nurse, and this as against all theory. 
But the quiet lifting of Ruth’s hand, and one 
glance from her dark bright eyes, told Annie 
just to stand away, and not intercept the air 
so. And at the very moment when all the 
rest had settled that Ruth was a simple idi- 
ot, but could not harm the dead much, a lit- 
tle flutter in the throat, followed by a short 
low sigh, made them pause, and look and 
hope. 

For hours, however, and days, she lay at 
the very verge of death, kept alive by noth- 
ing but the care, the skill, the tenderness, 
and perpetual watchfulness of Ruth. Luck- 
ily Annie was not there very often, so as to 
meddle ; for kind and clever nurse as she 
was, she must have done more harm than 
good. But my broken rib, which was set by 
a doctor who chanced to be at the wedding, 
was allotted to Annie’s care ; and great in- 
flammation ensuing, it was quite enough to 
content her. This doctor had pronounced 
poor Lorna dead; wherefore Ruth refused 
most firmly to have aught to do with him. 
She took the whole case on herself, and with 
God’s help she bore it through. 

Now whether it were the light and bright- 
ness of my Lorna’s nature, or the freedom 
from anxiety — for she knew not of my hurt, 
— or, as some people said, her birthright 
among wounds and violence, or her manner 
of not drinking beer — I leave that doctor to 
determine who pronounced her dead. But 
anyhow, one thing is certain ; sure as the 
stars of hope above us, Lorna recovered long 
ere I did. 

For the grief was on me still of having 
lost my love and lover at the moment she 
was mine. With the power of fate upon 
me, and the black caldron of the wizard’s 
death boiling in my heated brain, I had no 
faith in the tales they told. I believed that 
Lorna was in the church-yard while these 
rogues were lying to me. For with strength 
of blood like mine, and power of heart be- 
hind it, a broken bone must burn itself. 

Mine went hard with fires of pain, be- 
ing of such size and thickness ; and I was 
ashamed of him for breaking by reason of a 
pistol-ball, and the mere hug of a man. And 
it fetched me down in conceit of strength, 
so that I was careful afterward. 

All this was a lesson to me. All this made 
me very humble; illness being a thing as 
yet altogether unknown to me. Not that I 
cried small, or skulked, or feared the death 


which some foretold, shaking their heads 
about mortification, and a green appearance. 
Only that I seemed quite fit to go to heaven 
and Lorna. For in my sick, distracted mind 
(stirred with many tossings), like the bead 
in a spread of frog-spawn carried by the 
current, hung the black and central essence 
of my future life. A life without Lorna ; a 
tadpole life. All stupid head, and no body. 

Many men may like such life ; anchorites, 
fakirs, liigh-priests, and so on ; but to my 
mind it is not the native thing God meant 
for us. My dearest mother was a show, with 
crying and with fretting. The Doones, as she 
thought, were born to destroy us. Scarce 
had she come to some liveliness (though 
sprinkled with tears every now aud then) 
after her great bereavement, and ten years 
time to dwell on it — when lo, here was her 
husband’s son, the pet child of her own good 
John, murdered like his father! Well, the 
ways of God were wonderful ! 

So they were, and so they are ; and so 
they ever will be. Let us debate them as 
we will, our ways are His, and much the 
same; only second-hand from Him. Aud I 
expected something from Him, even in my 
worst of times, knowing that I had done my 
best. 

This is not edifying talk — as our Non- 
conformist parson says, when he can get no 
more to drink — therefore let me only tell 
what became of Lorna. One day I was sit- 
ting in my bedroom, for I could not get down 
stairs, and there was no one strong enough 
to carry me, even if I would have allowed it. 

Though it cost me sore trouble and weari- 
ness, I had put on all my Sunday clothes, 
out of respect for the doctor, who was com- 
ing to bleed me again (as he always did 
twice a week); aud it struck me that he 
had seemed hurt in his mind because I wore 
my worst clothes to be bled in — for lie in 
bed I would not after six o’clock ; and even 
that was great laziness. 

I looked at my right hand, whose grasp 
had been like that of a blacksmith’s vise ; 
and it seemed to myself impossible that this 
could be John Ridd’s. The great frame of 
the hand was there, as well as the muscles, 
standing forth like the gutteriug of a can 
die, and the broad blue veins going up the 
back, and crossing every finger. But as for 
color, even Lorna’s could scarcely have been 
whiter; and as for strength, little Eusie 
Doone might have come and held it fast. I 
laughed as I tried in vain to lift the basin 
set for bleeding me. 

Then I thought of all the lovely things 
going on out-of-doors just now, concerning 
which the drowsy song of the bees came to 
me. These must be among the thyme, by 
the sound of their great content. Therefore 
the roses must be in blossom, and the wood- 
bine, and clove-gillyflower; the cherries 
on the wall must be turning red, the yellow 


LORNA 

Sally must be on the brook, wheat must be 
callow with quavering bloom, and the early 
meadows swathed with hay. 

Yet here was I, a helpless creature, quite 
unfit to stir among them, gifted with no 
sight, no scent of all the changes that move 
our love, and lead our hearts, from month to I 
month, along the quiet path of life. And, 
what was worse, I had no hope of caring 
ever for them more. 

Presently a little knock sounded through 
my gloomy room ; and supposing it to be 
the doctor, I tried to rise and make my bow. 
But, to my surprise, it was little Ruth, who 
had never once come to visit me since I was 
placed under the doctor’s hands. Ruth was 
dressed so gayly, with rosettes, and flowers, 
and what not, that I was sorry for her bad 
manners, and thought she was come to con- 
quer me, now that Lorna was done with. 

Ruth ran toward me with sparkling eyes, 
being rather short of sight ; then suddenly 
she stopped, and I saw entire amazement in 
her face. 

“ Can you receive visitors, Cousin Ridd ? — 
why, they never told me of this !” she cried ; 
“ I knew that you were weak, dear John ; 
but not that you were dying. Whatever is^ 
that basin for ?” 

“ I have no intention of dying, Ruth ; and 
I like not to talk about it. But that basin, 
if you must know, is for the doctor’s pur- 
pose.” 

“ What 1 do you mean bleeding you ? You 
poor weak cousin! Is it possible that he 
does that still ?” 

“Twice a week for the last six weeks, 
dear. Nothing else has kept me alive.” 

“ Nothing else has killed you, nearly. 
There!” and she set her little boot across 
the basin and crushed it. “Not another 
drop shall they have from you. Is Annie 
such a fool as that ? And Lizzie, like a zany, 
at her books ! And killing their brother be- 
tween them !” 

I was surprised to see Ruth excited, her 
character being so calm and quiet. And I 
tried to soothe her with my feeble hand, as 
now she knelt before me. 

“ Dear cousin, the doctor must know best. 
Aunie says so every day. Else what has he 
been brought up for ?” 

“Brought up for slaying and murdering. 
Twenty doctors killed King Charles, in spite 
of all the women. Will you leave it to me, 
John? I have a little will of my own, and 
I am not afraid of doctors. Will you leave 
it to me, dear John? I have saved your 
Lorna’s life. And now I will save yours; 
which is a far, far easier business.” 

“ You have saved my Lorna’s life ! What 
do you mean by talking so ?” 

“ Only what I say, Cousin John. Though 
perhaps I overprize my work. But at auy 
rate she says so.” 

“ I do not understand,” I said, falling back 


DO0NE. 279 

with bewilderment; “all women are such 
liars.” 

“Have you ever known me tell a lie?” 
cried Ruth, in great indignation — more 
feigned, I doubt, than real — “your mother 
may tell a story now and then, when she 
feels it right, and so may both your sisters. 
But so you can not do, John Ridd ; and no 
more than you can I do it.” 

If ever there was virtuous truth in the 
eyes of any woman, it was now in Ruth 
Huckaback’s ; and my brain began very 
slowly to move, the heart beiug almost tor- 
pid, from perpetual loss of blood. 

“ I do not understand,” was all I could say 
for a very long time. 

“ Will you understand, if I show you Lor- 
na ? I have feared to do* it, for the sake of 
you both. But now Lorna is well enough, 
if you think that you are, Cousin Johu. 
Surely you will understand, when you see 
your wife.” 

Following her to the very utmost of my 
mind and heart, I felt that all she said was 
truth, aud yet I could not make it out. And 
in her last few words there was such a pow- 
er of sadness rising through the cover of gay- 
ety, that I said to myself, half in a dream, 
“ Ruth is very beautiful.” 

Before I had time to listen much for the 
approach of footsteps, Ruth came back, aud 
behind her Lorna; coy as if of her bride- 
groom, aud hanging back with her beauty. 
Ruth banged the door and ran away, and 
Lorna stood before me. 

But she did not stand for an instant when 
she saw what I was like. At the risk of all 
thick bandages, and upsetting a dozen medi- 
cine bottles, and scattering leeches right aud 
left, she managed to get into my arms, al- 
though they could not hold her. She laid 
her panting warm young breast on the place 
where they meant to bleed me, and she set 
my pale face up ; aud she would not look at 
me, having greater faith in kissing. 

I felt my life come back, and warm ; I 
felt my trust in women flow ; I felt the joy 
of living now, and the power of doing it. 
It is not a moment to describe ; who feels 
can never tell of it. But the rush of Lorna’s 
tears, and the challenge of my bride’s lips, 
and the throbbing of my wife’s heart (now 
at last at home on mine), made me feel that 
the world was good, and not a thing to be 
weary of. 

Little more have I to tell. The doctor 
was turned out at once ; and slowly came 
back my former strength, with a darling 
wife and good victuals. As for Lorna, she 
never tired of sitting and watching me eat 
and eat. And such is her heart that she 
never tires of being with me here and there 
among the beautiful places, and talking with 
her arm around me — so far, at least, as it can 
go, though half of mine may go round her — 
of the many fears and troubles, dangers and 


280 


LORNA DOONE. 


discouragements, and, worst of all, the bitter 
partings, which we used to have somehow. 

There is no need for my farming harder 
than becomes a man of weight. Lorna has 
great stores of money, though we never draw 
it out except for some poor neighbor, unless 
I find her a sumptuous dress out of her own 
perquisites. And this she always looks upon 
as a wondrous gift from me, and kisses me 
much when she puts it on, and walks like 
the noble woman she is. And yet I may 
never behold it agaiu ; for she gets back to 
her simple clothes, and I love her the better 
in them. I believe that she gives half the 
grandeur away, and keeps the other half for 
the children. 

As for poor Tom Faggus, every one knows 
his bitter adventures, when his pardon was 
recalled, because of his journey to Sedge- 
moor. Not a child in the country, I doubt, 
but knows far more than I do of Tom’s most 
desperate doings. The law had ruined him 
once, he said, and then he had been too much 
for the law ; and now that a quiet life was 
his object, here the base thing came after 
him. And such was his dread of this evil 
spirit, that being caught upon Barnstaple 
Bridge, with soldiers at either end of it (yet 
doubtful about approaching him), he set his 
strawberry mare, sweet Winnie, at the left- 
hand parapet, with a whisper into her dove- 
colored ear. Without a moment’s doubt she 
leaped it, into the foaming tide, and swam, 
and landed according to orders. Also his 
flight from a public -house (where a trap 
was set for him, but Winnie came and broke 
down the door, and put two men under, and 
trod on them,) is as well known as any bal- 
lad. It was reported for a while that poor 
Tom had been caught at last, by means 
of his fondness for liquor, and was hanged 
before Taunton jail ; but luckily we knew 
better. With a good wife, and a wonderful 
horse, and all the country attached to him, 
he kept the law at a wholesome distance, un- 
til it became too much for its master, and a 
new king arose. Upon this, Tom sued his 
pardon afresh ; and Jeremy Stickles, who 
suited the times, was glad to help him in 
getting it, as well as a compensation. There- 
after the good and respectable Tom lived a 
godly (though not always sober) life, and 
brought up his children to honesty, as the 
first of all qualifications. 

My dear mother was as happy as possibly 
need be with us ; having no cause for jeal- 
ousy as others arose around her. And every 
body was well pleased when Lizzie came in, 
one day, and tossed her book-shelf over, and 


declared that she would have Captain Blox- 
liam, and nobody should prevent her; for 
that he alone, of all the men she had ever 
met with, knew good writing when he saw 
it, and could spell a word when told. As he 
had now succeeded to Captain Stickles’s po- 
sition (Stickles going up the tree), and had 
the power of collecting, and of keeping, what 
he liked, there was nothing to be said against 
it ; and we hoped that he would pay her out. 

I sent little Ensie to Blundell’s school at 
my own cost and charges, having changed 
his name, for fear of what any one might do 
to him. I called him Ensie Jones ; and I 
think that he will be a credit to us. For 
the bold, adventurous nature of the Doones 
broke out on him, and we got him a com- 
mission ; and after many scrapes of spirit, 
he did great things in the Low Countries. 
He looks upon me as his father, and with- 
out my leave will not lay claim to the her- 
itage and title of the Doones, which clearly 
belong to him. 

Ruth Huckaback is not married yet, al. 
though, upon Uncle Reuben’s death, she 
came into all his property, except, indeed, 
£2000, which Uncle Ben, in his driest man- 
ner, bequeathed “ to Sir John Ridd, the wor- 
shipful knight, for greasing of the testator’s 
boots.” And he left almost a mint of mon- 
ey, not from the mine but from the shop, 
and the good use of usury. For the mine 
had brought in just what it cost, when the 
vein of gold ended suddenly ; leaving all 
concerned much older, and some, I fear, 
much poorer, but no one utterly ruined, as 
is the case with most of them. Ruth her- 
self was his true mine, as upon death-bed he 
found. I know a man even worthy of her ; 
and though she is not very yotmg, he loves 
her as I love Lorna. It is my firm convic- 
tion that in the end he will win her ; and I 
do not mean to dance again, except at dear 
Ruth’s wedding, if the floor be strong enough. 

Of Lorna, of my life-long darling, of my 
more and more loved wife, I will not talk ; 
for it is not seemly that a man should exalt 
his pride. Year by year her beauty grows, 
with the growth of goodness, kindness, and 
true happiness — above all, with loving. 
For change, she makes a joke of this, and 
plays with it, and laughs at it ; and then, 
when my slow nature marvels, back she 
comes to the earnest thing. And if I wish 
to pay her out for something very dreadful 
— as may happen once or twice, when we 
become too gladsome — I bring her to for- 
gotten sadness, and to me for cure of it, by 
the two words “ Lorna Doone.” 


THE END. 


No. 7 


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BEN-HUR: A TALE OF THE CHRIST. 

By GEN. LEW. WALLACE, 

AUTHOR OF THE “FAIR GOD.” 

16mo, Cloth, $1 50. 


The design of the story is to illustrate the condition of 
things in and about Judea at the time of the Redeemer’s 
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to fling oft' the detested Roman yoke. * * * The spirit in 
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The scenes described in the New Testament are rewritten 
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fiction.— Saturday Evening Gazette, Boston. 

Gen. Wallace has succeeded in achieving a difficult and 
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and considerable dramatic interest, an'd is evidently the 
result of careful study into the life and manners of the 
first Christian century.— Christian Union , N. Y. 

This is to us truly a wonderful work. Not often have 
we been so frequently and profoundly thrilled as in the 
perusal of its pages. There is that in the sacred subject 
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work which Mr. Wallace has put forth there is, linked 
with a fidelity to actual occurrence and a warmth of 
Christian spirit, a striking literary conception, and a 
pimple but strong diction, which, by themselves alone, 
are attractive.— Standard, Chicago. 


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Times. 

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it would at once be ranked among the notable works of 
the day. As it is, it needs only to be known to take its 
place among works of a high order. * * * The advent of 
Christ, his brief life, his ministry, his travels, and his hu- 
mane works, hjs intercourse with his disciples, his trial, 
his death— these historical facts are employed with great 
power in working out the plot, but they are treated rev- 
erently, and never coarsely nor obtrusively. * * * A book 
which is full of dramatic power, elevated thought, pro- 
found insight into Jewish character. It is a book which 
cannot fail to move the heart and command the intellect. 
— Western Christian Advocate , Cincinnati. 

“Ben-Hur” will be regarded as one of the few notable 
books of this generation. * * * A more remarkable work 
we have not read for years, either in treatment, coloring, 
or character. * * * With delicacy and tender sentiment, 
the author touches a sacred scene, especially that of the 
birth of the Redeemer. There is not the slightest sug- 
gestion of impurity in the book, and it is written with 
much stateliness of diction. — Albany Express. 

It is a historical romance of instructive interest and 
great power. We should pronounce it one of the best 
of books for the Sunday-school library and the Christian 
home. — Methodist Protestant, Baltimore. 

A real life-like picture of the age in which Jesus lived 
and died. The design of the author is admirably exe- 
cuted, and the fidelity with which he has personated and 
illustrated the greatest life-history of earth, will win for 
him more enduring fame than he won on the battle-fleld 
of our late civil war. — Lutheran Observer, Phila. 

The story will be read with interest, as it is a strong 
piece of work, and performed with a rare sense of the 
sacredness of the subject.— Interior, Chicago. 

The tale affords opportunity for the presentation of the 
principal facts in the life of Christ set in the surroundings 
of that age. The work is done skilfully and with no lit- 
tle power. — N. Y. Evening Post. 

Mr. Wallace has shown himself the fortunate possessor 
of literary ability of no common order in the treatment of 
this theme. It requires some courage and superior liter- 
ary judgment and taste to attempt and successfully com- 
plete a work of this kind. That he has succeeded, adds 
another star to his crown of triumph originally won on 
former fields of effort. There is nothing in this book to of- 
fend the most scrupulously conscientious feelings, but, on 
the contrary, a person must have a hard heart and an unbe- 
lieving mind who can read its descriptions of familiar Bible 
scenes and not be religiously affected — Chicago Journal. 

A remarkable book, and one sure to attract attention 
and many readers. — Worcester Spy. 

In the present work he pictures the times of Jesus, the 
surroundings of his life, and the general effect of his hu- 
man career. His style is chaste, vivid, and attractive. It 
is eminently calculated to add largely to the popular con- 
ception of the real historical setting of the time of the 
incarnation Christian Advocate, N. Y. 


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n°u™ 3 89 5 ' } Harper’s Magazine. 

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of R. D. Blackmore’s celebrated romance “Lorna Doone” — by Kate Hillard, beautifully * 
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every subject of interest to the home circle. While it is universally acknowledged as 
the leading fashion paper of America, its literary and artistic merits are of the highest order. 
Among its varied attractions are a brilliantly illustrated; serial story, “Kit — a Memory,” by 
the popular author, James Payn. 

Published Weekly , profusely Illustrated. 


V0 S ME f Harper’s Young People. { ilZ . 

H ARPER’S YOUNG PEOPLE is an illustrated - weekly journal for boys and girls. It 
contains serial stories, short sketches, poems, anecdotes, descriptions of frames and 
athletic exercises, and other matters interesting to the young. Among the special attrac- 
tions for the season is a new serial story bv Mr.W. L. Alden, entitled “The Cruise of the 
Canoe Club.” 


Published Weekly , p'rofusely Illustrated . 











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